TV review - Utopia - C4

Wed tv rev jan 16

Utopia – C4

I’VE long thought online forums are a dangerous business. Who knows who’s watching you? Tracking your every post. It’s one reason I quit Mumsnet.

I’m not saying Channel 4’s new thriller’s dark, but you’d have more fun reading a blog by a mortuary assistant. It reveals what can happen when an internet community gets horribly out of its depth. Like when ‘The Bunty online’ waded into the debate about the Arab spring.

The forum members were obsessed by cult graphic novel The Utopia Experiments, “about a scientist who makes a deal with the devil for knowledge”. It makes you wonder if Beelzebub isn’t really responsible for the Dyson vacuum cleaner.

Four online strangers had agreed to meet after one had gained possession of the holy grail of geekdom. Not a Betamax video of Robot Wars, The Utopia Experiments’ original manuscript.

Except a mean and merciless duo, henchmen of the mysterious Network, were on their trail. Cameron and Clegg I think they were called.

They’d already bludgeoned the owner of a specialist graphic novel bookshop to death. Horribly undeserving. Graphic novel bookshops don’t even sell Jeffrey Archer.

Everyone who encountered them was asked the same question,“Who is Jessica Hyde?”. I can’t help feeling it would have been a whole lot quicker to do a Facebook search.

Those who failed to answer suffered a bloody fate. One chap was pushed from a tower block. Another had his eyes gouged. It was an interview technique they’d learnt from Jeremy Paxman.

Unusually named forum member Wilson Wilson had mistakenly believed he could never be found. “In the past five years I’ve wiped all traces of me from the world,” he told his cyber-pals. “No bank account, no bills, driving licence, nothing - I'm invisible.” Although the Readers’ Digest had still managed to send him his free prize draw numbers.

Wilson had no fear of being captured by nefarious forces.“I can pick locks,” he said, “and if I'm chained to a radiator I can escape by dislocating both my thumbs.” If he’d not been anonymous he could have got himself a Saturday evening TV show.

Sadly he had no answer for a head clamp. And it was thus that, in scenes reminiscent of the Earl of Gloucester ‘out, vile jelly!’ eye extraction sequence in King Lear – a theatrical event which forever put me off pickled eggs – he suffered the ultimate optical unpleasantness.

He did, however, later manage to flee with the remaining two forum members. Cowering indoors, they were perturbed to hear a knock at the door. It was a woman. “I’m Jessica Hyde,” she said.

tv review – mon jan 14

Woodhouse – tv review – mon jan 14

Dancing On Ice – ITV1

DANCING On Ice looks a little tame now ITV has started launching celebrities off 10-metre diving boards on Saturday nights. Maybe next year they could cut their losses and combine the two. I’m thinking Celebrity Ski-Jumping. Instead of Splash!, Thud!. Certainly they’d guarantee my patronage if they could promise to fire Chris Moyles down a slope into a frozen waste at 60 miles an hour.

The show got off to an inauspicious start last week. Pamela Anderson was forced to re-evaluate her definition of ‘career low’ – previously when she was attacked by a killer prawn in Baywatch - as she lost to Keith Chegwin in a skate-off. Adding insult to injury, not only did Chegwin perform better but he has a superior bust.

Week one and the show had lost its only A-list star. On the plus-side Joe Pasquale was still in there.

This week saw Anthea Turner take to the ice. She’s been practising for three months and I’ve been disappointed not to see her dazzling the crowds with a triple salco the last couple of times I’ve taken the kids to the skating rink at Uttoxeter.

“If Pamela Anderson can go out in week one,” noted Anthea, “then anything can happen.” True. Although I’m not holding my breath for Cheggers to make the Olympics.

Anthea was kept sweating backstage. Rugby star Gareth Thomas, Pasquale, boxer Luke Campbell, even Oona King, went before. “Who’d have thought we’d have a member of the House of Lords on Dancing On Ice?” said commentator Tony Gubba. Although if they were determined to lure a member of the upper chamber on to the show, surely they should have thrown some cash at Norman Tebbit.

“Have we saved the best til last?” wondered Christine Bleakley, as Anthea’s big moment neared. “I don’t know about that,” replied Anthea, “but I’m going to try and polish that ice.” I’ve an idea she thought it was curling.

“If I’m doing something, “ she said, “I want to do it well. I am competitive. I have to come up trumps.”

Gubba was certainly impressed her routine. “A half drape, followed by a cradle, push-me-pull- me, then a back roll-up.” Why he was reading a homeware catalogue I’m unsure.

And the judges too were pleased with what they saw. Although Jason Gardiner clearly never used to watch Blue Peter. “Is it Anthea?”he asked woundingly before delivering his verdict.

Having established her identity, Gardiner was generous, with reservations. “You looked beautiful out there,” he said. “What I’d like is for you to unfurl a little bit more.”

She’s a TV presenter, mate. Not a carpet.

TV review jan 11 Bizarre Burials – Five

Fri tv rev jan 11

Bizarre Burials – Five

THE average funeral costs £2,600. The alternative is to do it yourself. Just check collection times with the council.

Few people realise there’s no limit on how long we can be with someone after they’ve passed away.

Wendy, for instance, drove round in her camper van with her mother’s corpse for five days. And they say the British holiday has lost its joie de vivre.

That’s not to say there weren’t complications. “She was getting in the way,” admitted Wendy. “I had to step over her every time I went to the bathroom.” They never tell you this in the manual, but if you are storing a cadaver in a mobile home, always keep it upright.

It should be pointed out that Wendy was only going along with her mother’s wishes, taking her on a journey to her final resting place.“Mother wanted a natural burial,” she revealed. “No money-grabbing priests, as she put it. Mother was like that.” I never knew her, but I’m thinking a sort of hippy Ena Sharples.

Mother’s last resting place was a nature reserve outside Harrogate. When they arrived, Wendy jumped out and began digging the grave. A shock if you were out for a stroll with the kids.

I’m assuming she had permission. Otherwise nature reserves would be full of people planting loved ones behind the bird hide.

Wendy had made a little video explaining the burial. “Friends and family can help dig,” she said. “Bring a picnic.” Nothing better than a Scotch egg and bit of trifle while watching a grave being shovelled.

The soil wouldn’t be going back on top. “She’s actually going to be covered in sheep poo,” revealed Wendy. “Some people find that peculiar. But it’s really natural.” So’s manure, but I wouldn’t want six foot of it on top of me.

“My mother’s funeral cost me nothing,” Wendy concluded. I’m pleased for her. Although if cost was the primary consideration, then surely they could have shared a tent.

Bizarre Funerals emphasised the point that , while the bad news is we’re all going to go, the good news is we can go as we want. “I’d write into my will that everyone has to dress up as me at some point of my life,” said one woman of her dream funeral. If they go as she was at point of birth it could be interesting.

Nik Reynolds, meanwhile, makes death masks of the departed. It could be the boost the Potteries has been looking for. “They’re a depository of a million memories,” he said.

Either that or an ashtray.

Wed tv rev jan 9

All You Can Eat – ITV1, 9pm

 "COMPETITIVE eating,” says George Shea, chairman of the pursuit’s International Federation, “talks about the triumph of the human spirit. For me, it’s beautiful. It’s like watching physical poetry. It’s like watching a dance.” It’s one way to describe a man consuming 75 pickled onions in a minute I suppose.

Slightly more realistic was Whitstable oyster-eating champion Nev. “The combination of beer, cider and oysters does tend to give you slightly dodgy guts the next day,” he said. A sentence you rarely hear on Masterchef.

“But it’s all right,” he added. “It’s all part of the fun of coming to Whitstable.” Remind me to chalk it of my list of must-visit destinations.

Competitive eating is on the rise in Britain. At last, an explanation for full trolleys in Iceland.

Among others, there’s the World Stinging Nettle Championship in Dorset, and the Festival Of Fiery Foods in Brighton, where people eat chili peppers as strong as pepper spray - and then spend the following fortnight on the toilet.

“I think it’s always a little bit frightening,” said Reuben, 2011 chilli-eating winner. “To know you’re going to go through that kind of pain is not really something to look forward to.” It reminded me of when I had to review An Audience With Cheryl Cole.
Peter Dowdswell has been dubbed Britain’s ‘Grandfather of Gluttony’. Aged 72, and one of the few senior citizens to routinely drink three yards of ale while collecting his pension, he was seeking to beat his own record of ten boiled eggs in a minute.

“When you’re doing the eating,” he revealed, “you make your throat like a conveyer belt. It’s just throw one down, and then the next one pushes it down. You just keep going at it.” You may wish to be moved if seated near him in a restaurant.

“I actually hold 365 world records,” he added. “One for every day of the year.” His calendar’s the greatest appetite suppressant known to mankind.

But Dowdswell doesn’t take his challenges lightly. “You’ve always got one thought in your head,” he said. "Is this going to be the time I’m going to choke?” And will the Heimlich Manoeuvre work on someone who’s had 15 hot-dogs?
Eating contest novice Lewis was off to Tampa to take part in a chicken wing eating championship. “I’m probably not ticking all the right boxes for my five a day,” he said. “They consist of chicken, beef, pork, turkey, maybe lamb.” He’s right. He could do with some bacon in there to balance it up.

Finally, Sam was the 2011 stinging nettle champion. “The following day you spend an awful lot of time in the bathroom,” he said. Dock leaves essential.

Woodhouse - Tue tv rev jan 8

 

Embarrassing Fat Bodies – C4

 

“WHEN I've got my clothes on I'm a different person,” said Gary. “It's when I've not got my clothes on that the problems arise.” You’re not alone in that, mate. Last time I saw myself naked in the mirror I thought it was Gollum with man boobs.

At least obesity has passed me by. The sprout and baked bean diet may not win you many friends but it keeps you trim.

Shockingly, though, 30 million adults in the UK are overweight. No wonder the cost of air travel is going up.

Embarrassing Fat Bodies hopes to go some way to curing the phenomena. “We’re on a mission,” said Dr Christian, “to get the couch potatoes of this nation up off their bottoms.” And he didn’t mean to fetch another tube of Pringles.

“With one in four obese,” he continued, “we're looking at how these extra pounds take their toll between the sheets.” You know the extra weight’s causing problems when your double divan becomes a futon.  

Gary had weighed 40 stone. But he’d lost 26 after having a brainwave. “I decided to cycle to work and back,” he said. I can only think he lived in Land’s End and worked in John O’Groats.

“Getting on the bike was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done,” he said. “Just physically moving it was a struggle.” Where’s Dave Brailsford when you need him?

However, such a massive weight loss had left him with a great fold of loose skin. Clothes off, he looked like a popped sumo wrestler. “Intimacy's a real big problem,” he said. No woman wants to see her man contain his torso with bicycle clips.

Sadly, more exercise wasn’t going to work. “You could do the Tour de France 20 times over,” Dr Pixie told him, “and it isn’t going to shift it.” Although some of the more extreme drugs in the peloton might have a chance.

Gary was sent for surgery. He now uses his old skin to keep the frost off his car in winter.

Down at the pub, meanwhile, Dr Christian was assessing the virility of darts players Colin, Kevin, and Andy. Although if darts players were desperate for a great sex life surely they wouldn’t wear nylon T-shirts.

Unlikely to be mistaken for a boyband, Colin, Kevin, and Andy were knocking back lager and wine on a nightly basis. “One pint is the equivalent of a small portion of fries,” they were informed.

I’m not sure the warning sank in. My suspicion is Colin, Kevin, and Andy saw it as a reason to stay in the pub and not go to the chip-shop.

 

The Woodhouse review – mon jan 7

 Mr Selfridge – ITV1

“YOU’RE standing on the spot,” said the brash figure in the top hat, “where the biggest and best department store in the world is shortly going to rise up from the rubble.” Not Wilkinson’s, Leek. Selfridge’s, London.

Harry Selfridge was the man with a mission to make shopping as thrilling as sex. A comparison you’d hopefully not make after emerging from Poundland.

“I want product range and I want product quality,” he said. “I want merchandise that people will desire. I want merchandise that people won’t know they desire until they see it right in front of their very eyes.” It was a visionary approach. Garages still do it with road atlases.

Not everybody was taken with the shopkeeper. “This fellow Selfridge seems to have a damned high opinion of himself,” noted one observer, a fan of the more low key Mr Millet.

Indeed, for a while it seemed Selfridge had bitten off more than he could chew, seeking emergency investment via formidable socialite Lady Mae Loxley, despite her trepidation towards the venture. “People like us aren’t used to going shopping,” she told him. “It’s not considered smart. A gentleman will visit his tailor, a lady will send for her dressmaker, and so on.” Occasionally we get manure delivered.

It became clear that Lady Mae might require certain attentions from Selfridge by way of return, inviting him initially to a hunt. “Will you make sure,” she asked her assistant, “that Mr Selfridge arrives in the latest knickerbockers? I do so enjoy a shapely calf.” A century later and she’d have had him in handcuffs from Ann Summers.

Selfridge, though, had taken more of a shine to Ellen Love, a good-looking Gaiety girl who he employed as the Spirit of Selfridge’s. “I want your face and figure on all our posters,” he told her. “Women want to be like you and men want you to be their sweetheart.” Like Kerry Katona used to be with Iceland.

Of course, Mr Selfridge will attract comparisons with BBC1’s The Paradise. But there is one subtle difference. Mr Selfridge has characters and a storyline.

It’s got a bit of pace and layering. Like the first series of Downton Abbey before it turned into a post-Edwardian Crossroads.

“London is crying out for this,” blustered Selfridge. “We're giving them glamour, style, razzmatazz. Once they see what we're doing here, there'll be no turning back.” It’s just a shame he didn’t give the restaurant franchise to Spud-U-Like.

However, there was one worry. The opening day was a great success crowd-wise, but sales were low.

The idiot should have gone online.