Tonight Singing Live Neil Ruddock is...in Need of a Stiff Talking to

I’m 25, it’s a weekend night and I’ve stayed in. After the initial bout of depression, lasting all of 20 minutes, the thought of a Saturday night in alone swiftly becomes a rather pleasant one. With the sky beginning to bruise and with the house to myself, there was only ever one thing I was going to do, on my own, all night…watch television.

After consulting the TV listings, my initial, and on reflection foolish hopes of a healthy selection of decent programmes to organise into some kind of timetable were dashed beyond repair. Without dwelling on the whole tacky and frankly embarrassing affair I will just run through a few of the cultural gems that were on offer. I sat through the first of a double bill of Strictly Dance Fever, yet another re-hash of the zero to hero to zero formula, this time with sequins and jazz hands, but as ever, performed by delusional, over-weight and under paid members of the Great British public. The complete and utter creative exhaustion of the genre and the sheer complacency of the souls who produce this glop is now obvious. One member of ‘the herd’ turned up under the impression he was to be paired with a ‘celebrity partner’ and turned into Doncaster’s answer to Ricky Martin, when in fact the show is ‘all about the public’, no celebs, apart from the panel (which includes Wayne Sleep), are involved. This poor old sod had completely misunderstood the format; unlike his act, this mistake is totally forgivable when you belong to a society that has come to expect anything but creative or innovative popular television. And they call it the return of VARIETY! Nevertheless the aged baffoon plodded on, dutifully making a complete pillark of himself in the process.

It seems in certain factions failure is regarded as the new success, or at least the very next best thing. No contestant on one of these televised talent shows can anymore claim to be ‘oblivious to the system’, yet tens of thousands still flock to the auditions, desperate to flaunt their physical, emotional and psychological shortcomings on national television. What ever happened to dignity, self respect and for that matter, friends and family who say “you’re shit, don’t do it”? The allures of fame and fortune have forever been apparent, but it seems to be the realisation that they are now attainable overnight, with little or no talent, that compels thousands of hopeless hopefuls to trade every last ounce of self respect for ridicule and inevitable upset, so long as the medium is sufficiently mass.

Other delights on offer tonight were a Celebrity Chef Special Weakest Link, wacky jumper wearing ‘king of gunge’ Noel Edmonds, manufacturing suspense in Deal or No Deal, Celebrity Stars in Their Eyes, artist’s included Neil ‘razor’ Ruddock and ah what’s this The British book awards on Channel Four, should be good… or perhaps not. Hosted by world-renowned literary critic’s Richard and Judy and with a little help from wordsmiths such as Chantelle (of Celebrity Big Bro fame) and Kelly Osbourne, it was clear from outset that, as my turf accountant had kindly informed me earlier in the day, though this time with reference to ‘Glorious Goodwood’…the going could be heavy. There were obviously the awards won by er… writers, which one would expect and my congratulations go out to them, but that’s what should be happening at The British Book Awards; people who write books being awarded prizes for doing so.

The ceremony became an absolute farce, not when Chantelle skipped out, that was bearable, but when Sharon Osborne won the Best Biography category, now don’t get me wrong I’m sure it’s a thrilling read, but I find it hard to believe she carried manuscripts around in a satchel for 2 years in fear of loosing them. Or indeed ever spent the wee hours locked in a candle lit room, just her, herself and her black dog, bent over a desk, implement in hand, stripped to the waist, gushing forth on to the page (well perhaps). In fact I find it hard to believe she even put pen to paper after signing the contract, if she did I apologise, but she didn’t did she.

The wretchedly sycophantic affair was in full flow as Jamie ‘pukka’ Oliver collected his well deserved ‘Lifetime Achievement Award’ for services to that most revered of forms, the cook book and perhaps the cheekiness of chappies from Essex, I don’t know. By the time Andrew Flintoff and JK Rowling picked up their “Oscars of the British Book industry” for Best Sports Book and Best Book (it’s a fucking kids book) respectively I felt numb, anything was possible. One could have been mistaken for thinking they were now televising The Mutual Appreciation Society Annual Gala Dinner and Dance. All we needed was Chris ‘Geldof ‘ Martin, Madonna, and a Q & A with Shirley Bassy. Add to that a few under privilege, black, disabled, lesbian, single mothers being paraded around in front of the cameras whilst the celebs, now tipsy from the free bar and ‘feeling the pain’, shout revolutionary cliché’s and throw things around, and we would have been there.

If this is what the nation’s major information providing medium has to offer, presumably to adults, on a Saturday night, the end is nigh. It’s no wonder there’s a growing sense of apathy towards anything which people might now term ‘serious’, or to put it bluntly, anything that doesn’t involve the lives of complete strangers buying a house, selling the contents of their dead uncles shed, or some slack mouth shouting, screaming writhing or wriggling about in front of a celebrity panel. Adorno would have moaned on about social implications of these ‘Tools of Distraction’ and I for one in this instance would have no qualms with him.

There are obviously those who champion programmes such as Strictly Dance Fever for ‘what it stands for’ (usually TV producers), don’t give me any crap about reality TV representing the democratisation of the mass media. Any supposed social ‘empowerment’ offered through ‘ordinary folk’ on television is of the pseudo variety, as someone who is careful to remain unseen is pulling all the strings. The contestants may say what they please, but someone else will decide who, if anyone can hear it. And the fact that ghost written celeb biogs can now win literary awards doesn’t represent some kind of invasion of high culture by the low, it may be post-modern in theory, but it is far from progressive.

All these programmes stand for is the distancing of the masses from what 60+ years ago people might have been able to call ‘reality’. As we wallow around in media saturated squalor, caring and knowing an awful lot more about what’s happening in Coronation Street than Downing Street, is there any way back to some kind of old fashioned (in terms of the concept) ‘reality’? I’m not claiming to have a solution, I’m not even sure where the real problems lie, but I do know that Orwell was very wrong, because if indeed there is any hope, from what I can see, it certainly does not lie in the prols.