There is a great scene in the movie Election where Matthew Broderick angrily tries to deflect questions from one of his young charges, who is scrutinising the vote he has fixed in favour of his preferred candidate.
“We’re not electing the fucking pope here” he retorts, dismissing the goofy teenager’s reservations about the count, given that in the greater scheme of things, it means sod all.
Over the past few weeks, a series of similar voting shenanigans have been taking place over on BBC1’s flagship Saturday evening show, Strictly Come Dancing. John Sergeant, the man with two left feet, the joke candidate who couldn’t possibly win has been finishing bottom of the pile on Saturday only to be resurrected by the voting public the following evening. This has visibly riled the judges, as one superior dancer after another has been eliminated, while Sergeant ambles his way through another routine each week. The latest dancer to suffer this misfortune was Cherie Lunghi, whose demise was simply a bridge too far for the judges and the 15% of viewers who take the programme seriously as a dancing competition.
Initially, the judges adopted a tactic of implying that the voting public were morons, who should do as they say. Strangely, this only served to strengthen the resolve of the Sergeant supporters, and so this week they took a different tact; disappointment - agonising over whether to keep Lisa Snowdon or Cherie as if they were facing Sophie’s Choice. The one judge I’d absolve from this criticism is Len Goodman, who I actually think is a nice enough man who DOES want this to be a dance competition. Unfortunately a dance competition alone is unlikely to be popular enough I’m afraid.
The furore surrounding him clearly made John uncomfortable, as he sheepishly lingered on the edge of the survivors commiserating their fallen comrade. Then came the stories (rumours from ‘insiders’ mostly) of an uprising among the remaining contestants; if Cherie could go, then it could be any of them – yikes, JOHN MUST GO. John Sergeant is not a man to be easily intimidated – when Thatcher resigned there he was in the thick of it prodding her with a microphone (you could argue that this was her weakest moment, but I wouldn’t get in her way). However, eventually the sniping must have got to him and he decided that enough was enough and yesterday stepped down.
The backlash has been swift and vicious. The Facebook groups established when rumours spread of a passing bandwagon on which to jump, are incandescent in their rage. Here is a flavour of the wall…
"Can't believe he's gone. Those tosser judges should go as well. Silly old bas***ds!!!!!!!!!!"
"As far as I am concerned the judges are just a silly bunch of rude, egotistical nitwits with their heads placed so far up their proverbial bottoms they wouldn`t know what entertainment was if it slapped them in the face"
"Noooooooooo!"
Several comments refer to the judges and their egos, but even more hit on the real nub here, that this is an entertainment show, and John was, entertaining…in a way. And even if he wasn’t, the reaction he generated among the judges sure was. He got people (even me) taking an interest and talking about this programme – give it a week, who knows I may even have voted. Now, all that is gone and SCD will have to hope as many people take an interest in a show that is so strictly about the dancing. I rather doubt they will.
A lot of people have questioned why John was in the show to begin with if he ‘wouldn’t be allowed to win it’. Many suggest, and I’m inclined to concur, that he was there at best as light entertainment, at worst so there’d be a contestant the judges could smugly mock for lacking in dancing talent. What is most unsavoury about all this is that when he turned the tables against the bullies, he was forced out because it didn’t fit with what the judges and the producers wanted.
A lot of people criticise X-Factor, and it mostly deserves it. However, there is none of the pretension of SCD. It knows what it is and what is wants to be, and abuse these days is essentially pantomime abuse. It also has the esteemed Cheryl Cole, a trailblazer in that she is someone your wife or girlfriend doesn’t mind you fancying as they do to a bit too.
It is a damn sight better than Strictly which will now produce a winner forever tainted by the nature of John’s exit. Does it really matter who wins? Does it? Of course not. I’m afraid it’s another spectacular BBC own goal. After all, it’s not like we were electing the Pope…
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
How to lose friends and alienate acquintances...
A couple of weeks ago I had 131 Facebook friends. Today I have 128. This means, over that fortnight 3 people have decided that they no longer wish to be publicly linked with me. If I was a quasi-celebrity being spoken of unfavourably in the media (Kerry Katona), or been accused of doing something I shouldn’t (Chris Langham) this might be understandable. As it is, in two cases I am as peripheral to these people as the day they accepted my friend request. In the third, I actually met the person concerned for a beer this time last year following some Facebook emailing. It wasn’t a social occasion likely to rival my wedding in the annals (we’d not met in 8 years so it was a tad discomforting), but it was pleasant enough, and there was certainly no indication that it was an engagement of such dire proportions as to warrant my purging from their online world. One day I’ll be Prime Minister or the first man to walk on Mars and they’ll all come crawling back, at which point I’ll direct them to my proxy group where they can sit with all the other peons who don’t actually know me (a proxy group really is a measure you’ve made it these days isn’t it).
All this rather reminds me of the unpleasant aspects of school. Writing in The Guardian recently, David Mitchell (of Peep Show fame) mentioned that while he wasn’t the most popular guy in school he ‘got by’. This more or less reflects my own experience; a circle of friends large and strong enough that bullies and/or beautiful people generally picked on an easier target. However, there were odd occasions when I might be caught in the open or be more in need of a hairwash/cut/clearasil than a peer and as such was viewed as fair game. My confidence would naturally take a hit as a result, recover after about a week when some poor fool came in smelling a bit ‘funny’ and then, at some point, depending on how kind my skin or voice were to me, the process would begin again.
However, at school, I never had such a reliable, statistical device as Facebook to quantify exactly how many friends I had or chart their comings and goings (which is probably for the best). As such, there was no numerical measure of my declining popularity to depress me. I might have been aware that not letting Ben Barnard copy my French homework, probably didn’t endear me to him, but no tangible friend total diminished as a result. No, this is a uniquely adult angst.
It isn’t just the number of friends count that gives me reason to fret. I used to display an application whereby your friends rated you on things such as ‘best singer’, ‘best dressed’ and so forth, against another of their other friends at random, and you are allocated a rank based on how many times you ‘win’. I noticed that my ranking for ‘best looking’ was somewhat lower than might be expected and investigated further. I was horrified to discover that three of my so-called friends had been given the chance to rate me on this, and each time, had opted for the other person. This intelligence sent me into a spiral of insecurity and despair I’d not seen in a long time, and in a fit of pique I deleted the application. In doing so, I was warned of the implications for my friends if I deleted it. “Your friends will lose all votes you have cast so far” it told me. Fuck them, frankly.
Of course, I was overlooking any number of possible mitigating factors. I am married, therefore out of the equation, and so perhaps the other person won by default? Maybe all three voters were men, and the randomly allocated opponent was a woman. What if I was up against the partner of the person making the judgement? In short then, plenty of highly plausible reasons for my low rating. Thank goodness for that.
Eventually rational thought entered the equation, and I stopped worrying about all this nonsense, but it was a worrying decline into introspectiveness that I could have done without. Facebook seems to be made to fuel rejection (in addition to stalking, infidelity and defamation of course). Any friend request not answered within 24 hours leads to a furrowed brow and repeated logging in to Facebook. I have just installed a fictional country application and asked my mate Carl if he’d be my ally. He didn’t reply for at least 6 hours by which time I’d almost developed hypertension. Thank god he said yes or I’d have had to kill him…
All this rather reminds me of the unpleasant aspects of school. Writing in The Guardian recently, David Mitchell (of Peep Show fame) mentioned that while he wasn’t the most popular guy in school he ‘got by’. This more or less reflects my own experience; a circle of friends large and strong enough that bullies and/or beautiful people generally picked on an easier target. However, there were odd occasions when I might be caught in the open or be more in need of a hairwash/cut/clearasil than a peer and as such was viewed as fair game. My confidence would naturally take a hit as a result, recover after about a week when some poor fool came in smelling a bit ‘funny’ and then, at some point, depending on how kind my skin or voice were to me, the process would begin again.
However, at school, I never had such a reliable, statistical device as Facebook to quantify exactly how many friends I had or chart their comings and goings (which is probably for the best). As such, there was no numerical measure of my declining popularity to depress me. I might have been aware that not letting Ben Barnard copy my French homework, probably didn’t endear me to him, but no tangible friend total diminished as a result. No, this is a uniquely adult angst.
It isn’t just the number of friends count that gives me reason to fret. I used to display an application whereby your friends rated you on things such as ‘best singer’, ‘best dressed’ and so forth, against another of their other friends at random, and you are allocated a rank based on how many times you ‘win’. I noticed that my ranking for ‘best looking’ was somewhat lower than might be expected and investigated further. I was horrified to discover that three of my so-called friends had been given the chance to rate me on this, and each time, had opted for the other person. This intelligence sent me into a spiral of insecurity and despair I’d not seen in a long time, and in a fit of pique I deleted the application. In doing so, I was warned of the implications for my friends if I deleted it. “Your friends will lose all votes you have cast so far” it told me. Fuck them, frankly.
Of course, I was overlooking any number of possible mitigating factors. I am married, therefore out of the equation, and so perhaps the other person won by default? Maybe all three voters were men, and the randomly allocated opponent was a woman. What if I was up against the partner of the person making the judgement? In short then, plenty of highly plausible reasons for my low rating. Thank goodness for that.
Eventually rational thought entered the equation, and I stopped worrying about all this nonsense, but it was a worrying decline into introspectiveness that I could have done without. Facebook seems to be made to fuel rejection (in addition to stalking, infidelity and defamation of course). Any friend request not answered within 24 hours leads to a furrowed brow and repeated logging in to Facebook. I have just installed a fictional country application and asked my mate Carl if he’d be my ally. He didn’t reply for at least 6 hours by which time I’d almost developed hypertension. Thank god he said yes or I’d have had to kill him…
Friday, November 7, 2008
THE CREDIT CRUNCH BITES
The credit crunch truly is starting to bite at work. Our daily fruit delivery was stopped and then reinstated when a revolt was threatened and they realised they could save the 40 grand a year it costs by sacking a few people instead (Hurrah!). There are no more free dinners (unless a client is present – and lets be honest – in that circumstance, what the hell is the point), but worst of all the instant coffee being provided is no longer Gold Blend, but regulation Nescafe. To quote Swiss Tony (I think)
“This coffee tastes like the strainings of the Devil’s jock strap”
I’m strongly considering bringing my own coffee from home. And people in the Congo think they have problems.
Like most people at the moment I blame the BBC for all this. Not the credit crunch itself, but my perception of how much I am suffering. BBC Breakfast leads the way, veering today from the genocide in Congo one minute to the far more pressing concern of people who own horses that can no longer afford them the next.
“I’ve had horses my whole life” they sobbed.
Really it was the most depressing story about poverty I’ve heard since reading about Cuthbert and Olly Le Fervre who can no longer be educated privately as their dad worked for Lehman Brothers. This follows hot on the heels of a piece Breakfast ran about the rising cost of staple goods in your shopping trolley. What product has suffered the most devastating increase; crossiants and pain au chocolat apparently up 47% on last year. The nation will presumably not be laid low with scurvy and rickets following cessation of French pastry rations, however the WI coffee mornings will not be as well catered as before.
Is all this really news? Presumably BBC Breakfast knows its target audience, and all the really bad news is over on GMTV or the Wright Stuff, but in an era where people are being turfed out of their houses, surely there are better human interest stories to be had?
“This coffee tastes like the strainings of the Devil’s jock strap”
I’m strongly considering bringing my own coffee from home. And people in the Congo think they have problems.
Like most people at the moment I blame the BBC for all this. Not the credit crunch itself, but my perception of how much I am suffering. BBC Breakfast leads the way, veering today from the genocide in Congo one minute to the far more pressing concern of people who own horses that can no longer afford them the next.
“I’ve had horses my whole life” they sobbed.
Really it was the most depressing story about poverty I’ve heard since reading about Cuthbert and Olly Le Fervre who can no longer be educated privately as their dad worked for Lehman Brothers. This follows hot on the heels of a piece Breakfast ran about the rising cost of staple goods in your shopping trolley. What product has suffered the most devastating increase; crossiants and pain au chocolat apparently up 47% on last year. The nation will presumably not be laid low with scurvy and rickets following cessation of French pastry rations, however the WI coffee mornings will not be as well catered as before.
Is all this really news? Presumably BBC Breakfast knows its target audience, and all the really bad news is over on GMTV or the Wright Stuff, but in an era where people are being turfed out of their houses, surely there are better human interest stories to be had?
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
In Praise of Glock
Well what a scintillating finish to a Formula One season. I’m not sure it would actually be possible to contrive such a conclusion – you’d be derided for cultivating such a far-fetched tale. In the end, much like the England cricket team in the 90s, Lewis Hamilton found himself praying the heavens would open. Thankfully they obliged, and how it changed the race – blunting the challenge of the unfortunate Timo Glock, who found himself overtaken by almost everyone (even the safety car, Fred Flinstone, and the cast of Last of the Summer Wine on an out of control loom would have passed him by). He gamely tried to pilot his stricken car to the finish, however conditions made it impossible for him to travel at anything other than cruising speed. It is somewhat beguiling that a simple variable such as wet weather could wreak such havoc on Glock - a bit like when the nothing could stop the Darleks other than a flight of stairs.
There are already scurrilous rumours that Herr Glock’s curb-crawling on that final lap was some devious attempt to deprive Massa of the world title. The number of Facebook groups devoted to him has swelled in recent days; many in Italian and Portuguese suggesting that they are perhaps not complimentary towards the young man. Of course he wasn’t intentionally ushering Lewis to the championship, you only had to look at his aquaplaning on those final bends to realise that driving any faster would have even more certainly handed Hamilton the title. However, this has not deterred the Massa-supporting conspiracy theorists, nor diminished the warm, glowing sense of affection I have for Glock. I just love him. Of course it is not so much the German driver that I love, but more the notion that Glock, unhappy with earlier decisions by the powers that be, decided to take matters into his own hands and gift Hamilton the title. Take that Belgium! Let’s not forget the commentary team, who played their part in building his aura as well
“IS THAT GLOCK?! IS THAT GLOCK?!” YES! YES IT IS, IT’S GLOCK! they screamed. What a welcome sight he was, and the commentary is right up with “Its up for grabs now!” for perfectly encapsulating the moment.
Given the regularity with which Formula One cars collide meant that there was always a chance a hapless third party would intrude on this decider. It was almost SebastianVettel who spoiled the party, overtaking Hamilton as he did at the death. Vettel is clearly not acquainted with the British press who would no doubt have savaged him after that doozy. Liz, hardly a passionate F1 follower was moved to comment that
“I hate Vettel, why can’t he mind his own business” before the rain intervened. Goodness knows what The Sun would have done with him, given that reaction from a relative moderate. Thankfully, there was no calculated hatchet job by Hamilton’s usual nemesis Fernando Alonso, while Murray Walker and his optimism have retired meaning that he was unable to talk Hamilton out of the title.
“Surely nothing can stop him now” would almost certainly have preceeded Vettel’s nifty overtaking on the penultimate lap – and then it wouldn’t have rained either.
Back in the pits the tension was clearly unbearable. Lewis Hamilton’s girlfriend, Pussy Cat Doll #4 was there, looking as out of place as it is possible to look in a Formula one pit lane. She was dressed as though about to embark on an evening at Bar Med in Guildford, rather than occupying a position about 20 feet away from flammable, and highly combustable materials.
Both teams celebrated as Hamilton crossed the finish line. Ferrari clearly had the same GPS system I used on a recent trip to Canada – i.e. completely useless – not realising that Glock had been passed. It was the one sour part of the day watching their celebrations cruelly cut short, though at least the producers did not linger to watch this news digested. Instead we crossed to McClaren, and unbridled happiness – everyone jumped for joy – even the Pussycat Doll, who I hope did not turn her ankle when she landed on those heels. Everyone ITV found to interview felt that the result was ‘probably fair’ – Lewis probably deserved it, and that Massa was a dignified and utterly noble runner-up; he could almost have been British infact.
There was precious little mention Glock, who had quickly ascended to the position of Britain’s second-most popular F1 driver. I’m already looking forward to cheering him on next season.
There are already scurrilous rumours that Herr Glock’s curb-crawling on that final lap was some devious attempt to deprive Massa of the world title. The number of Facebook groups devoted to him has swelled in recent days; many in Italian and Portuguese suggesting that they are perhaps not complimentary towards the young man. Of course he wasn’t intentionally ushering Lewis to the championship, you only had to look at his aquaplaning on those final bends to realise that driving any faster would have even more certainly handed Hamilton the title. However, this has not deterred the Massa-supporting conspiracy theorists, nor diminished the warm, glowing sense of affection I have for Glock. I just love him. Of course it is not so much the German driver that I love, but more the notion that Glock, unhappy with earlier decisions by the powers that be, decided to take matters into his own hands and gift Hamilton the title. Take that Belgium! Let’s not forget the commentary team, who played their part in building his aura as well
“IS THAT GLOCK?! IS THAT GLOCK?!” YES! YES IT IS, IT’S GLOCK! they screamed. What a welcome sight he was, and the commentary is right up with “Its up for grabs now!” for perfectly encapsulating the moment.
Given the regularity with which Formula One cars collide meant that there was always a chance a hapless third party would intrude on this decider. It was almost SebastianVettel who spoiled the party, overtaking Hamilton as he did at the death. Vettel is clearly not acquainted with the British press who would no doubt have savaged him after that doozy. Liz, hardly a passionate F1 follower was moved to comment that
“I hate Vettel, why can’t he mind his own business” before the rain intervened. Goodness knows what The Sun would have done with him, given that reaction from a relative moderate. Thankfully, there was no calculated hatchet job by Hamilton’s usual nemesis Fernando Alonso, while Murray Walker and his optimism have retired meaning that he was unable to talk Hamilton out of the title.
“Surely nothing can stop him now” would almost certainly have preceeded Vettel’s nifty overtaking on the penultimate lap – and then it wouldn’t have rained either.
Back in the pits the tension was clearly unbearable. Lewis Hamilton’s girlfriend, Pussy Cat Doll #4 was there, looking as out of place as it is possible to look in a Formula one pit lane. She was dressed as though about to embark on an evening at Bar Med in Guildford, rather than occupying a position about 20 feet away from flammable, and highly combustable materials.
Both teams celebrated as Hamilton crossed the finish line. Ferrari clearly had the same GPS system I used on a recent trip to Canada – i.e. completely useless – not realising that Glock had been passed. It was the one sour part of the day watching their celebrations cruelly cut short, though at least the producers did not linger to watch this news digested. Instead we crossed to McClaren, and unbridled happiness – everyone jumped for joy – even the Pussycat Doll, who I hope did not turn her ankle when she landed on those heels. Everyone ITV found to interview felt that the result was ‘probably fair’ – Lewis probably deserved it, and that Massa was a dignified and utterly noble runner-up; he could almost have been British infact.
There was precious little mention Glock, who had quickly ascended to the position of Britain’s second-most popular F1 driver. I’m already looking forward to cheering him on next season.
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