It's my dream...

I’ve been reading some of my recent blogs, just to see what you all have to put up with, and I’ve noticed I have a hither to unrecognised obsession with KJPBT and Peter Andre. Worrying.

I am most definitively not a fan of this reality/celebrity thing - I simply don’t understand it. It’s puerile drivel. Looking out from my set of eyes Britain hasn’t got talent – its got slavering dogs walking through fat ladies legs and people blowing up hot water bottles with their noses. Then there’s Celebrity Mr & Mrs. The couple that run my local post office are more famous than the competing ‘celebrities’ that appear on that show (bring back Derek Batey and the octogenarians from Cleethorpes that’s what I say).

And as for the X Factor, well don’t get me started. How thick can people be? The ‘judges’ don’t see all the auditions – do the maths…. If only 10, 000 people turned up and took 5 minutes each that would be 50,000 minutes of ‘performance.’ That’s 34 days straight without a break. And the X Factor boasts hundreds of thousands slither up to have the arse ripped out of them. Get real Great Britain. The judges are filmed in front of the acts they want to be filmed in front of – the acts that are carefully selected by the researchers to provide a running narrative through the series. That’s why you get a mix of nutters in with the mildly talented. That’s why you always get a sob story, usually a drug infested single mother with ten children, by ten different fathers, or a ginger nut that was bullied throughout his school life. And lo and behold they get through the ‘audition.’ It ensures the naive keep coming back – to see if someone, who really wants it, whose been dreaming about this all their life, can make it to the final despite having less talent that a jumping Mexican bean. Naturally their frailty is exposed in the weeks leading up to their dismissal. Episodes of the Archers have more spontaneity than the X Factor. It’s more tightly choreographed than a ballet. See what you’ve done? I told you not to get me started on the X Factor.

So where was I? Ah yes, The Apprentice, another show that has a skilful editor. But at least you can enjoy the savage beating Alan Sugar meters out to the numpty that ‘didn’t sell nuffink.’ I can’t see anything other than spontaneity in his tongue-lashings.

It got me thinking though. Who is the poor sod he designates back in his business to manage these egocentric, puffed up, suited and booted vipers? I don’t envy him (or her). Whoever gets that job must feel about as lucky as a bee with hay fever.

Or maybe he simply dumps them in a stationary cupboard – what a horrible thought, a stash of moronic arse lickers next to your supply of post it notes, urgh…

Bloody hell, I’m beginning to rant now, but to be fair, I’ve always wanted to rant, it’s my dream, I want to rant so much it hurts. I was even bullied as a child on account of my ranting, and I once had a ginger hair when I grew a beard. I don’t want to tell you of the coughing fit I had after one puff of a spliff in Amsterdam, but I will, if it helps me to fulfil my dream…

Is it me, or is it all a load of bollocks?...

PS – Next time I’ll be ranting about MP’s expenses… thieving bastards…