23^rd October 1998

Yep, it’s that time again. The time when I get the urge to resurrect this idea of having a regular column. It’s been a year since the last one faltered. Lets see how long I can keep this up. Any of you think that there are some good jokes in there about keeping my column up should be reminded that the Carry On… web site is now at www.carrion.com.

Every one who ever picked up a pen and saw a TV programme has fancied themselves as a TV critic, and I am no exception. I have taken it upon myself to keep you informed of the latest developments in TV Land thus saving you the effort of watching and the cost of the licence.

The latest innovation in TV programming is that of getting other people to do up some aspect of your life. Once this concept was limited to a five-minute makeover whilst Richard or, indeed, Judy, cack-handedly interviewed some minor Soap star just about to embark on a disastrous pop career, or having some embarrassing wish fulfilled by a sinister man in a white wig. Nowadays, thanks to Changing Rooms, hosted by the blindingly-obviously named Carol Smiley TV will allow your living room to be devastated by the neighbours who only last week were complaining about you to "Britain’s Most Annoying Neighbours."

But the best development so far is Ground Force. In this programme, the delightfully sarcastic Alan Titchmarsh brings together a team of experts and turns a mundane suburban garden in one that rivals the ones at Versailles, and even Blue Peter. All very well, but that itself doesn’t explain why the British male has suddenly rediscovered his love of gardening. It would, if you watched it. One of Ground Force’s gang of experts is water-feature virtuoso Charley. Charley is keen and bouncy. Her keenness and her bounciness are beautifully aped by her cheery bosom. She’s the sort of bra-eschewing, hands-on girl that men could watch gardening for hours and hours. She is more than happy to go out in the cold and the rain and make sure her water-feature is gushing by the time the programme is over. And we men can do naught but watch and imagine her giving our tired looking borders the once over. And I won’t burden you with the thoughts most have of her erecting a little water feature in our very own front yard.

Keeping on the theme of breasts, we move onto Fort Boyard. Fort Boyard is another celebration of the mamma. The main elements of the show are a pair of large breasts, five people prepared to make a tit of themselves for TV, and Lesley Grantham.

The hostess is Melinda Messenger, a woman who is so large of chest, blonde of hair and high of voice, that you almost wish she wouldn’t fulfil the stereotype and actually be a bimbo just to show how looks can deceive. Alas, Miss Messenger is little more than a walking chest that is only an octave too low to summon dogs from afar. And her breasts are just too large for serious gardening work.

Lesley Grantham you may recall was Dirty Den on EastEnders. Dirty Den was clearly meant to be a relative of Dirty Harry. Except Dirty Den never shot anyone (well, not on EastEnders he didn’t), and Dirty Harry was a believable character that you could conceivably expect to find in real life. To say Lesley Grantham is the worst actor on TV would be to totally disregard the work of the actor who used to play Ali Osman on that same soap.

Fort Boyard is a cross between an old Children’s TV show The Adventure Game, The Krypton Factor and Japanese psychotic game-show, Endurance. I won’t bore you with a description of what happens, but suffice it to say, stuff happens and the ‘selling point’ of the game show is that people have to come up against their worst fear. People’s worst fear usually seem to be spiders, heights or snakes. I have yet to see anyone with a truly irrational fear, such as postmen, the letter Q, or David Cassidy albums. In fact, if I was going to go on this show, I’d make up a totally stupid fear in order to give me a head start. Such as fluffy bunnies, or pictures of acorns, or maybe I’ll reveal my all-time worst fear is to be forced to crawl through a tunnel of heaving breasts. Oh, the humanity.

One program not obsessed with the male worship of the mammaries is Ally McBeal. I shan’t be reviewing this here.

When the great levelling of the land comes. When the sea rises, and the mountains fall, then it has been written that those who have lead a good life will be allowed to live in the flat utopian Eden thus created, and those who have done wrong will burn for all eternity in Hull. In a special section of Hull, by that place that will hold those actors who have been particularly dismal in their art (Lesley Grantham, and the guy who played Ali Osman on the same soap for example) will be an extra special place. A place for the musicians who have been the evilest. And by evil I don’t mean took too many drugs or bedded far too many women, I mean evil as in playing dull, bland music. UB40, Michael Bolton and Hanson will all reside here. And special guest, by virtue of his later work - i.e. the last three quarters of his career - will be Sir Cliff Richard.

Sir Cliff has recently had a publicity-enhancing (for both sides) run-in with Chris "If Ginger Was Talent He’d Have Some" Evans. The details are dull. Chris ‘shocked’ the world by refusing to play Cliff’s latest dull single, and then probably spinning Celene Dion’s latest platter. And Cliff fought back. His publicist hired a lot of out-of-work actors. Dressed them up as Cliff-fans (maybe even threw in some genuine Cliffettes), and set them to protesting outside of Virgin Radio, demanding that the voice of the jogging-suited, well-preserved fogy be heard.

So far, Chris has not relented, and both are very happy with the publicity thus generated.

Cliff is not happy however by what he sees as the conspiracy against him, by the world of radio, who don’t give his as much air play as other people. Many of whom are just as bland, but just happen to be younger and better looking. My message to Cliff is, "don’t you see it’s obvious what the matter is. Marilyn Manson and such all sell better than you. Why? Can’t you see? Isn’t it clear? Isn’t it time you embraced the dark side? Nobody likes a goody-goody. Come, join us! Taste the pleasure. Feel the flesh-ridden love of the true underlord. Love him that hath been cast out. Love him that is known as evil. Love Satan! Love Satan! Love Satan!"

After all, see what it did to Chesney Hawkes’ career! D’oh!

(c) October 1998 Peter R. More.