…what a cock. What a total and utter cock.

I love that his letter is riddled with mistakes and that he signs off with “All the best” after berating the subs for a good 13 pars.

My mum’s bloke is related (by marriage) to the Corens. Giles is a cock of the highest variety.

I do hope the Times told him where to go.

Just when you thought people couldn’t get any more weirder, any more up themselves and out for total humiliation of their fellow human kind, up pops the second instalment of Personal Services Required – fast becoming my new favourite program (shame it’s only four eps – pull yer finger out Ch4). If you‘ve not seen it yet, I urge you to catch the repeat on Sunday night, and the proper new version on Tuesday. You won’t be disappointed.

This week it’s Housekeepers. Head-hunters Danny and Gaby (who were later described as Chav lottery winners – summed it up better than I ever could), and Dog Spa owners (yup, Dog Spa) Craig and Marjorie are looking for… well… turns out they’re not actually looking for a housekeeper, as Vivienne Hoolahoop – a typical school ma’am, who’s veh veh posh and talks like she has a coat hanger in her mouth at all times – points out. Vivienne – who always introduces herself with her full name, as if she’s some intrepid explorer, searching for the Andies or whatever – has had housekeepers before, you see, when she used to live in Africa, and so knows that a housekeeper oversees the running on the household, making sure no one runs out of toilet paper, that the cleaners do everything to the highest standards.

Hisekeepers (as Vivienne calls them) are not required to clean pig shit off swimming pool floors, neither are they meant to pick up spoiled precocious young madams from school, cook dinner for a family of richer-than-yoow arseholes, walk dogs, organise a hippie’s office for him, provide a ‘turn down service’ (whatever that is), wear a chauffeur’s hat to the supermarket or help drag unwilling dogs into a swimming pool – all as part of a 16-hour day.

Vivienne was clearly the star of the show. Wonderfully aloof and eccentric in equal measure, she did her best Mary Poppins impression at Danny and Gaby’s house – she cooked a roast chicken while trying to entertain their chubby spawn with the old “are you married” question. She did her best, but they’d obviously judged her as soon as she said she’d just have “ordinary Indian tea” instead of PG Tips. As soon as her chicken was in the oven, they booted her out the door.

Andrew’s qualifications for becoming a hisekeeper was that his mum has a bit of a bad back, so he helps her out with her ironing. Oh, he has no idea what Danny and Gaby have in store for him, does he?! Gaby likes her beds tight. Insert joke here. Later, Gaby asks Andrew how he’d feel about wearing a chauffeur’s hat while he drove her to the shops. They compromised on a suit. Now I don’t know how y’all would feel if you lived in a six-bedroom mansion – maybe you would feel it absolutely necessary to have a chauffeur drive you to Tescos. As far as I’m concerned a tidy house is one thing (even though it’s not technically a Hisekeeper’s job) but being vulgar and showing off your luxuries for other people is another. It’s just so distasteful (rather like Gaby’s new vase then). To Andrew’s second night, and he must cook a meal for the family. Flapping around the kitchen, Andrew says, “I don’t want to make her and Danny look like fools.” Sweetie, I think they’re doing a good enough job of that themselves. But what is Andrew to wear? A chef’s hat this time? Thankfully, he’s allowed to wear what he likes, and he comes up with some kind of strange tuna bruscetta monstrosity that makes Gaby’s mum want to vom. Mumzilla then slags Andrew off for not making Chubby Spawn’s bed. Cue Badger Madge spitting bile at the TV.

Back to the Dog Spa and Vivienne Hollahoop seems to be getting on well with Craig and Marj. He likes her cookies, she likes his wild boars – “As in Wild Boars?” No, as in Tame Boars, Viv. Sadly the good times don’t last, as Vivienne commits the deadliest of acts at the dog spa. No, not that – she sings. Well that’s it quite frankly, as far as Craig and Marj are concerned and they too dismiss her early with the kind words, “You don’t fit in here, it’s time for you to leave.” Charming.

Next at the Dog Spa it’s Andrew’s turn and they’re concerned he’s not done this before. Guys *no one* has done this before – it’s a chuffing Dog Spa, for gawd’s sake. But hey ho, Andrew gets on fine with the dogs but not so well with the canines *boom boom* Ahem.

Back to the chav lottery winners, and Anne-Marie (who sailed through at the Dog Spa) is asked to pick Chubby Spawn up from school – presumably wearing the chauffeur’s hat? No? OK… One rule for Andrew, one rule for everyone else, tsk… Anne-Marie feels uncomfortable doing that, clearly because she’s met the kid, which makes Gaby go off on the defensive, “What Kind of mum would I be if I just handed over my kid to anyone?” She asks. Clearly the kind of mum who doesn’t get her daughter to make her own bed in the morning… Not that I’m judging at all, of course.

And so to the job allocation. Chubby Spawn wants Anne-Marie because “we can mould her” – Jesus Christ! What kind of manipulative evilness is this child? *shudder* Gaby and Danny leave Andrew and Anne-Marie to deliberate in private – they also want the two to fight over the job. Yeah because a 16-hour day dressed in a chauffeur’s hat and looking after the devil incarnate for £20K is really worth fighting over. In the end they award Anne-Marie the job, but lower the wage to an insulting £250 a week. The dog spa folk offer Andrew a very substantial position. Without even checking it out, Andrew turns it down. No one liked the all-singing, no-cleaning Vivienne, which was a real shame as I found her rather charming – even if she does talk like she’s a female version of Brian Sewell.

As promised (and in celebration of a superb Dr Who finale), here is the David Tennant Acting Masterclass (as brought to you by BMTV)

Simply follow these straightforward rules, and you too will pull off a performance worthy of the great Doctor himself.

1. Push your jaw forward when talking. It doesn’t matter if this makes you spit as you talk – see 7.

2. Vowels are your friend. Practise saying “Wwwwooooooaaaarrrrgggghhhhhhh Yes!” Instead of simply, “Oh yes.”

3. Shout. A lot.

4. Try to push your pupils out as far as you can, especially when acting serious, sincere, scared, angry or sad. Imagine there are beams of energy coming out of them and try and ‘fire; them at whoever you’re talking to.

5. When saying a bold statement, pause for a bit, and then say “Weeeeeeeeeellllllllll”

6. At all times, talk as if you’ve a big ball of spit in your mouth and are trying to keep it in…

7. …although don’t be afraid to spit. Spitting conveys heightened emotions, and as an actor, you’ll have to emote on a regular basis. So if you’re performing a particularly dramatic or emotional scene, spit. A lot.

8. Insert random moments of energy into your performance. It shows diversity as a performer.

9. You can never gurn too much.

10. When met with a slightly difficult conundrum, scratch your neck in an upward movement, while doing 9 and 4 together.

11. When having a showdown with a particularly dastardly villain, emply the Arched Eyebrow of Doom.

12. “Ha!” Try doing this after number 10.

And there you have it. Master (scuse the pun) these basics and you’ll be running around Cardiff in your All Stars in no time…

I missed Personal Services Required (Wednesdays, 9pm, Ch4) last week but was lucky enough to catch the repeat last night. The premise is thus: two individuals or families trial three would-be employees for two days. They then offer one of them a job. Last night’s was Personal Assistants; so two high-flying executive business types invited three high-powered PA types on a two-day trial each. Or if you want the short version: two fuck wits who need parents, invite capable, professionals to iron their shirts and peel potatoes.

The two fuck wits – or Peter Rosenfelt and Suzi Alexson – both ran their ‘business’ from their own homes. Peter basically wanted a wife but without the sex, and Suzi wanted… well, turns out she wanted Mickey – one of the candidates – almost as much as her teenage daughter did. *shudder*

At first, watching this cringe-fest, I just felt dirty. Watching stupid egos try and get clever people to do demeaning things isn’t actually very comfy viewing in my book. But my interest peaked when Suzi met her second applicant – can’t remember her name, let’s called her Suzie as she was more or less Suzi, just with more make-up. The Suzis – the epitome of North London princesses off to a Vanessa Feltz lookalike competition – started off loving each other (a right pair of Narcissuses. Narcissuses? Narcissi? Oh you know what I mean), and then had a Max Clifford-off. Suzie knew him from L’Oreal (whatever that meant) whereas Suzi knew him… Well he’s just one of her clients. Hopefully. We’ll see. We’re meeting with him tomorrow, just shut up, take loads of notes and make me look important, OK?

Course, Suzi stuffs it up by trying to go in for a kiss at first, to which Clifford backed away, then she told him she was in awe of him, whilst heaving her massive bosoms out for all to see. Suzie and Max cringed with professional embarrassment. Suzie’s main mistake was approaching Suzi about it later. The two uber-egos clashed and it was nail extensions at dawn. Suzi, right, is successful. She’s done loads of PR. She might not have a letter head, business cards or a decent internet connection, and she might not be able to charge her mobile phone, but this lady is on the pulse OK?

Peter Rosenfelt – who’s not gay, OK? Even though he’s a bit camp and might hire a male PA, right, he’s not gay though. Look, he has five girlfriends to prove it. Yeah and he needs a PA to manage his dates for him, so that proves he’s not gay, OK? Do you think he’s gay? Because he’s not. He was just wondering how he came across. Not gay though. Where was I? Oh yeah, Peter Rosenfelt took one potential employee out on a date and then proceeded to chat her up (which further proves he’s not gay. See? Because if he was gay, right, he’d take Mickey out on a date and chat *him* up. But because he’s a homo – sorry – heterosexual male man, right, he took Anne Marie out instead. And chatted her up).

Suzi started Mickey’s trial by getting him to cook dinner for her and her family. Then a load of boring over-the-table malarkey, some bitching on all sides, and Mickey gets both jobs. Probably because both potential employers fancy him. And he brought a notebook.

Looking forward to next week when two people trial housekeepers. Wonder what mundane tasks they’ll be made to do? Polish the light switches, brush the dogs’ teeth… Wondrous.

I know this sort of thing should be right up my street, but I just can’t get my head around all the fuss over Mamma Mia (now I know how all you anti-SATC lot were feeling). I dig Abba (and I’m not afraid to admit it), I like musicals and I’m all for adaptations and anything that’ll get the general populous into the theatre (eventually).

But… I dunno. I just don’t get this. They’re creating some kind of melo-drama around Abba songs. It’s about a girl searching for her father – a storyline that doesn’t exactly involve the very public break-up of two marriages set against a world of glitter, spandex and lipgloss (and that’s just the boys – fnar). The real Abba story would make a helluva better movie, imo! What was a heartbreaking song about not being able to give up the person you love, even though they hurt you, turns into some kind of weird song about cleaning a handbag, from what I can gather. It’s just wrong.

Not only this, but the media have gone Abba crazy. Not that this is a bad thing, but they’re doing so in the kind of “Ha, wasn’t Abba funny, eh? With their silly hair dos and Lycra?” GMTV are running seg-ways all week with the presenters going on about their favourite Abba songs. “Mine’s The Winner Takes It All!” chirps a caffeine-pumped Ben Sheppard. Clearly the boy has never even listened to the lyrics (or seen the heart-wrenching video). Twat.
(NB: Bear in mind that, at this stage, the marriage had collapsed and yet she still had to sing the words her ex wrote about her. Just miserable).

This culminated the other morning in a rendition of Mamma Mia and Dancing Queen by the cast of Mamma Mia. The finale was a trio of menopausal women, trust up in full-on bright neon jumpsuits (which let’s face it even made The Blonde One look fat back in the day). They sang tunelessly to Dancing Queen, while youthful dancers pranced around them with unending energy.

Abba aren’t all sunshine and lipgloss. That’s their beauty. Underneath all that, there’s darkness, pain, and no end of heartbreak. That’s why I love them. Hen dos and pissed-up students may request Dancing Queen all the time of an evening. Little do they know it’s actually a lament about a young slapper.

But do you know what really bites about this whole Mamma Mia malarkey? They’ve changed the effing lyrics. What was: “I’ve been cheated by you, since I don’t know when,” has become: “I’ve been cheated by you, and I think you know when.” Which changes the whole point of the lyric! Before, the singer is feeble, confessing she’s known all along and hasn’t done anything about it. The second lyric is more aggressive, more challenging, and it’s just not right, dagnammit!

Yes, I know one of the boys helped with the musical, and the two are both helping to market the film, but, it just reeks of money munching. I know it’s tempting to go and see Pierce Brosnan go and make a tit of himself by singing an Abba song, but can’t we do the dignified thing and just let it lie?

Imagine not liking TV. I know, it’s not a nice concept, but it’s OK, I’m here – hold my hand if you like and we’ll get through it together. And breathe. It helps if you breathe. Now, I understand people who have those hobby things like reading stuff and playing musical instrument type things. But even those people tend to watch The Apprentice, the news, the odd documentary or even a soap or reality show (usually because their girlfriend watches it or something).

Well, I’ve just been having a very interesting conflab with someone who *actually hates all TV shows*. Even the news (probably). “I don’t hate TV, just the programmes on it,” he says. How can this be? Can there really be people in the world who don’t watch any television – not because they don’t have a telly, but because they choose not to? I’m talking an outright conscious decision not to watch anything. At all.

What joys they’re missing out on! The thrills of wondering who’ll be next to be booted out of BB for gangsta threats / spitting at a fellow housemate / urinating on someone’s pillow / rape… The glee at watching Gordon Ramsey strip off into nowt but his stupid blue contact lenses for yet another cookery show where he flirts embarrassingly with Janet Street Porter, while bullying a ‘family’ of Z-list celebs. The absolute hysterics at Celebrity Mr and Mrs, 100-1, Jeremy Kyle, yet another After You’ve Gone / Vicar of Dibley / Keeping Up Appearances repeat…

Hmmm… I fear he may have a point. But for the record, here are my top reasons to love TV:

Innovation
I might have poked fun at their stooped ads a while back, but developments like Sky+ (other PVR units are available) have revolutionised the way we watch TV. Too busy for Gok’s How To Look Good Naked? No worries! Just set it up to ‘record’ on Sky+ (or other) and watch it at your convenience. Wondrous. You have no idea how much our PVR unit saved me when I was commuting. I’d record everything and watch it back over the weekend. Perfect. PVRs have put the viewer in control and given them the decision of what to watch and when.

Multi-channels
Nowadays there’s always something on. BBC3, ITV2, E4, Dave… What great new comedy – and Top Gear / Grand Designs repeats – awaits of a boring Saturday avo. But really, it’s a chance for channels to test out new shows, making sure that what gets to us terrestrial lot is the best. Hmmm… Shame they didn’t test After You’ve Gone, then, eh?

Soap boxes
Thanks to the likes of Jamie Feckin Oliver and Hugh Fernley-Wittingstall, people like me (who are shallow and don’t care about the evil in the world) are made aware of such important social issues as crap school dinners (as if we didn’t know already) and battery farming. Thanks to TV, these issues have reached people who wouldn’t usually think about how their food gets on their plate, and this can only be a Very Good Thing (even if you do have to take out a second mortgage to buy a free range chicken that has less meat on it than Nicole Richie).

Literacy
Like most of my generation (and many others before and after) I more or less learned to read and count with Sesame St. Its neon colours and fast-paced counting (who remembers the “Onetwothree four five, sixseveneight nine ten, eleven tweeeelve” song? Classic) are to blame for my lack of numeracy skills and my love of all things fluffy and grouchy. And with fewer parents reading to their kids these days (or even talking to them properly, for that matter) such broadcasting is vital for the development of literacy and social skills in our younguns.
*climbs off soap box*

Period dramas
Ah you can’t beat a bit of Bleak House or Cranford for fabulously cosy Sunday evening viewing. Cranford had me crying buckets by the end of the series – if you non-TV watchers out there watch anything this year, get your hands on the Cranford box set. Heart-wrenching stuff.

Soaps
Yes they’re shit. But that’s the point. If I didn’t have Eastenders to rant and rave about, this blog probably wouldn’t exist, born as it was over the ex-Mr Badger’s frustrations at my screaming at the TV of an evening. I haven’t yelled at the TV since starting BMTV just over three years ago. The exception to the ‘soaps are shit’ rule has to be Hollyoaks (bear with me). Some amazing and brave storylines of late, some good acting from its young cast (the kid playing 7-year-old Tom Cunningham deserves some kind of young actor awards) and innovation a plenty (Oaks was the first soap to go HD).

Comedy
Gavin & Stacey and Peep Show are unmissable. Hilarious, cringe inducing and tear-jerking in equal measure, they’re worth the license fee alone (yes, I know Ch4 doesn’t get it but hey). Similarly, Mock the Week, Have I Got News For You and Buzzcocks are all comedy TV staples.

Reliability
No matter what my mood, I can always rely on TV to cheer me up, make me laugh, cry or rant. It’s always there in the corner of the living room, ready go at the flick of a switch. Thanks to my TV, there’s never silence in the flat (something I still haven’t been able to deal with yet), there’s always company and I never get bored. I’m not saying it takes over the role played by my real (and wondrous) friends – nothing beats a good gossip and heart-to-heart with the Lady Rachel over a glass of rose, but if people are busy, or they’re not in the mood or skint, my lovely telly is always ready to keep me company (and it doesn’t argue back or leave wet towels on the bed).

Last ditch attempt
How can you argue with:
Dangermouse
Inspector Gadget
Grange Hill
Biker Grove
Knightmare
Knight Rider
The A Team
Thundercats
The Avengers
Red Dwarf
Lost
Heroes
24 (early seasons)
Mary Portas
Gok Wan
Sralan
Palin
Attenborough

????

Come on TV fans, let’s show the love – anyone got any more reasons to love telly?

Things we’ve learned from this series of Dr Who:

> UNIT are shit.
First the Sontarons break into their base (which looks more like some kids’ clubhouse than a top-security military type building). Next the Daleks glide (I was going to say walk, but that would be a tad insensitive) into their next base (this time some kind of hospital wing with screens), with no problems whatsoever. Do UNIT not have security?

Not only are their building penetrable, they’re also rather bumbling. Forcing recruits to test weapons that haven’t been properly sanctioned yet, for one.

> Anyone can access UNIT/America’s home security intranet type thing.
Mr Smith and the super computer at Torchwood were clearly able to hack in, but apparently any old laptop’ll do. Cribbins got online, Rose walked into a random computer shop and managed to upload to it. Even Harriet Jones was teck-savvy enough to get on to hear the Daleks and their message of doom.

Speaking of which, why was everyone so shocked at the Daleks’ return? “It can’t be…” whispered the Doc. Well… Actually… If you think about it, they *do* tend to come back every sodding year, so it usually *is* them, isn’t it, sweets? But a wicked Red Dalek (me want) and of course Davros and Dalek Kahn make a wondrously grotesque, maniacal pairing.

> Judoon is a brilliantly mirthsome language. Sign me to lessons now please.

> You can do a massive ensemble piece and it still be good.
I was a tad concerned that too many cooks would spoil the broth, but actually (apart from some unwelcome visitors – which we’ll get on to later) it was just great to have everyone together and my, what a showcase as RTD’s swansong. I doff my hat at you, sir, for creating (on the whole *cough* Torchwood *cough*) some really good popular sci fi stuff. Sadly I work, so I can’t catch The Sarah Jane Smith Adventures, but they do look cracking, don’t they? She’s rather good (and yes, still foxy)…

> Tennant is a great actor, but sometimes gets caught up in the moment a tad too much.
Check out BMTV next week for our End Of Series David Tennant’s Acting Masterclass.

> The Shadow Proclamation have drug issues with their staff.
That lady had serious red-eye. Munchies anyone?

> Cribbins is an absolute pleasure to watch.
At being asked if he has a webcam: “She wouldn’t let me,” indicating Donna’s mum. “She said they were naughty.”
I bloody love that man. Give him O’Grady’s slot, please!

> Rose shouldn’t have come back.
Yes I know. More controversy. I was a massive Rose fan back in the day. But even I didn’t want her back this time. Not only have we had Martha over shadowing this series, but we’ve had Rose pop up every other episode. Thankfully, Tate is a better actress than the two of them put together (yes, she feckin is, OK?) and so there was hardly any scene stealing involved. But if I had to watch her whinging and moaning about the fact that she “was there first” I really was going to turn off. I can’t stand her now. She’s just a spoilt brat who doesn’t deserve the Doc’s companionship (or love for that matter – you’d think someone as clever as he wouldn’t be swayed with such love-sick puppy eyes, but hey ho. Essentially he’s a man, so…)

> What are the Mr Copper Foundation and the Osterhaagen key?

> A bit of laziness does hurt.
Lazy Deus Ex Machina *yes again* with the “billions of phones all calling out at once” malarkey. Now, why does that sound sooooo familiar?

> This series has been the strongest.
I genuinely haven’t disliked one episode of this. Not that I can’t remember anyway. RTD has pulled out all the stops and his Turn Left and Midnight were among my fave eps of the series. I’m so glad, as I don’t like not liking people. But now, hand on heart, I have buried my issues with RTD and am now a fully paid-up member of the RTD fanclub. He’s great he is. Marvellous in fact.

And so to the end of the first half of the finale (oh, you know what I mean). I’m thinking the hand will have something to do with the Doc’s non-regeneration. After all, if we’re to believe that Tennant’s filming of the Xmas eps aren’t merely a decoy (and I don’t believe that any more) then he won’t be able to regenerate, right? Or can he regenerate but just have a slightly different eyebrow for example? Who fanatics? Care to venture?

The wondrous Woo has again tagged me, this time to mention my top songs of the moment – songs I’m rilly, like, digging right now (no matter the genre, timeframe, whatever).

Well my most played songs on this site I’ve been shown are:

The Ting Tings, That’s Not My Name (sorry, but I’m digging that sulky sound atm. It suits my mood!)
Estelle, American Boy (really summery and I like the groove).
Simian Mobile Disco, It’s The Beat (an eternal fave of mine)
Simian Mobile Disco, Never Be Alone
Sam Sparro, Black & Gold (ethereal and beautiful)
Gabrielle Cilmi, Sweet About Me (sweet)
Bob Sinclar, Love Generation (always makes me smile)
Rolling Stones, Star Me Up
Robyn, Handle Me (because he can’t)
Kelley Rowland, Work (this is my Friday afternoon song. Never fails to get me a-bopping)

I tag Jayne, Joff and Ant (only because I doubt there’s anyone left who’s not been tagged yet!

Badger Madge wrote
at 12:36pm
Amy hun, totally gutted to hear of your accident while doing admin at home. I totally know how you feel! A huge part of my job is to sort competition entries and organise prizes and things to review in the mag, and sometimes I feel like fainting too! I can only imagine the massive amounts of admin you have to sort/cut and cram in to your busy life. Hope you’re feeling better soon hun… xx
Write on My Wall - Delete

Another trip to London, another screening. Am beginning to feel like one of those proper journos what go to press launches and film previews and stuff. But those who know me know it’s actually because I’ll never pass up a freebie, so it was off to Leicester square for Hancock.

The film itself was fine. The last 20 mins are a bit flaky and they missed an opportunity to do something really interesting with their (actually well-played-out) twist. Smith does his usual straight-talking, wise-cracking everyman, except this time he’s a tortured, alcoholic reluctant superhero with a chip on his shoulder that Bill Gates would be proud of.

The public think he’s an asshole, the villains are out to get him and even those he saves plan to sue him. With a warrant out for his arrest, his only thankful victim – I mean rescued – is a PR man who decides to set about changing Hancock’s public image. But that means one thing: jail.

It sounds like fluff but there are gleams of depth in there somewhere – it’s just a shame the makers didn’t go that extra step and make Hancock as well-rounded as he could have been. Maybe in the sequel, eh?

Story of the evening:
In the queue into the screen, my sort-of-step-bro (SOSB) and I found ourselves in between Alison off Big Brother (the large black lady who now presents for This Morning) and Anita Roddick’s daughter. Roddick did a double take, “I know you…” she said to Alison. I was about to make a quip about not thinking someone like her would watch such crap as BB (especially something as crass as BB3), but then Alison said that she’d been over to her house to interview her mother. “Yes, yes that was it,” she said, looking at me too, as if to include me in the conversation. She obviously thought Alison and I were buddies. I smiled back, kinda liking the association with a Z-lister (hey, celebrity is a drug, even if it is the skanky skag rocks equivalent).

“Yeah…” continued Alison, “six weeks later – she was dead!”
SOSB and I cringed. I shrank back, desperately wanting to disassociate myself with Alison asap – oh how the public turn!
“Er… I’m sorry?” said Roddick.
“Six weeks after our interview was when your mum died,” carried on Alison, at the top of her voice. “Gutted I was. Gutted. How are you anyway?”
“Still quite heartbroken actually,” said Roddick, turning away and finding a seat – as far away from us as possible.

BB4’s Alison: definition of a tactless godbshite, ladies and gents.

Must be terrible to be the child of someone famous sometimes.

**

Oh and on a side note, I realised the other day that I can rattle off every BB winner in order:
Craig, Brian, Kate, Cameron, Nadia, Anthony, Pete, Brian

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.