Propagreenda

Hot on the heels of product placement, now deemed suitable for British TV viewers’ consumption, a new subliminal soft sell from America is set to appear on our screens. Plot points such as a character in Law and Order who switches to energy-saving light-bulbs are being increasingly worked into the narrative as networks attempt to attract advertisers out to court the eco-aware buck. It’s a phenomenon that goes by the distinctly Orwellain sounding title of ‘behaviour placement’ although I prefer ‘propagreenda’. Cynical marketing ploy or nay, anything that helps preserve the planet can’t be all bad. How will it translate here? Could The Bill, recently axed, be recycled with bobbies in hand-me-down vintage uniforms riding tandems rather than tearing around in gas guzzler cars? They could rebrand it as Dixon of Dock ahem, Green.

Ballots!

Polling day can’t come soon enough, if only to shunt the Dave ‘n’ Gordie show (featuring Nick C, Alex S, leuan W-J and sundry fringe loonies) off our TV screens. I’m all for politics as light entertainment - Portillo’s face as he lost at Enfield; Kinnock’s hubristic ‘victory’ rally; Prezza’s inner Alex Reid unleashed on an egg thrower - but this tedious campaign has thus far been about as amusing as a bad case of gout. The gaiety of the Hunt the Chris Grayling contest aside, the only good bit so far was when oleaginous grande-dame Lord Mandelson called Old Etonian hoodie hugger, Dave, ‘toffee-nosed.’ This, from an arriviste schmoozer of high society who once also resided in Notting Hill, a ‘hood where £595 is considered ‘reasonable‘ for a pair of loafers to knock around in? Le Creuset pot? Alessi kettle? Black! More hypocritical bitchiness please!

The Future Of Clubbing?

With meow meow banned, cats seeking an alternative sensory experience must pray venues nation-wide embrace ‘premium’ London club Merah’s ‘ingenious light therapy system’. Why? Because, according to its PR, Merah's resident techie genius claims lighting can affect and change mood. Well, hello Einstein! Programme orange and yellow in that order and your sex drive and intellect will be stimulated, apparently: hence the scenario whereby your urge to snog the babe at the bar is tempered by the realisation that to do so will earn you a lamping from her bruiser boyfriend. More innovative still, Merah (that's harem spelled backwards, since you ask) plans to pump in its own branded scent so punters will feel ‘at home’ Halle-flamin'-lujah!  It may not be exactly novel - 70s sex clubs in America used to pump in amyl nitrate to get the party started -  but post-smoking ban, any trend that obliterates the now ubiquitous fug of sweat, farts, beer-sodden carpets and Katie Price’s Stunning sure smells like the future of clubbing to me.  

www.merahclub.com

Two-bit Tassel Twirlers

It’s been several years now since the burlesque revival took off. Executed with wit, élan and the right ratio of bump to grind, glamour pusses such as Immodesty Blaize and Dita Von Teese -their sophisticated tease sharper than the cup of a Jean-Paul Gaultier conical bra - have elevated their métier to an art-form. Now, it seems every old neighbourhood bar is jumping on the bandwagon, showcasing ‘artistes’ who are basically in it for pin money. At an East End dive, I sat, cringing, while two Readers’ Wives liberated their blubber from cheap nylon basques, wiggled their cellulite-y asses in our faces the unsuccessfully attempted to twirl their tassels to that old Peggy Lee chestnut, I’m A Woman. Yes dears, and so is Vanessa Feltz but I wouldn’t pay to see her flaunt her bits either. Cover up and leave it to the pros: bargain basement burlesque is getting on our tit ends. 

The Sound of Musicals

The aptly entitled Les Misérables - highlight: its revolving set breaking down - was the soul-sapping experience that spawned my hatred of the type of mass-market musicals - beloved of the charabanc trade and polyester-clad tourists from Hell - that increasingly dominate Theatreland. If Ibsen or Brecht hoped to get a look in nowadays, they’d need to bung in a few cheesy crowd pleasers and pray high-kicking Dames Judi, Maggie and Diana would razzle-dazzle ‘em in sequins and Lycra. Sister Act; Wicked; Dreamboats and Petticoats; you couldn’t bribe me to sit through them, let alone prize sixty quid out of me for the dubious privilege. News that Coronation Street is to be turned into a musical surely represents a new nadir for the genre: ‘How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?’ yodels madman Tony Gordon as he escapes jail intent on murdering the show’s hairdressing heroine, his estranged fiancée. Mamma Mia!

Encore Nul Points?

It’s time for making your mind up as nations short on pop pedigree select ditties purely for our amusement at May’s Eurovision Song Contest. Previews suggest a Greek tragedy caused recent unrest in Athens and that Iceland should have stuck with Kerry Katona. Turkey? A right turkey! Should we feel smug? Not while UK hopes rest on a chap with the charisma of a courgette performing dire Stock (no Aitken) and Waterman dinosaur Sounds Good To Me - but not to anyone south of Dover, I bet. It’s payback time as Eastern Europe gets to punish us for inflicting Waterman protegées Sonia, Sinitta et al on them, their canon employed by KGB interrogators to break refuseniks, apparently. Meanwhile, Russia has rejected Eurovision gold in not adopting Buranovskiye Babushki. Sung by six gummy, gurning grannies - think Loose Women of Leningrad - watch it on YouTube and weep for what might have been.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LrWhK9Q4aNA 

Plex Pests

The first time I went to the flicks in the USA, I was totally unprepared for the cacophonous soundtrack that would accompany the main feature. Used to a culture where the occasional rustle of a sweetie wrapper or a polite cough was as loud as it got, a brash Brooklyn audience’s rumbunctious behaviour seemed shocking. Sure enough, where America leads...Visit any British multi-screen now and the unruly ‘plex pests rule. Remonstration is pointless; Beavis and Butt-head know their rights. You’ll get done for harassment...or worse. Last Saturday, I literally (and figuratively) lost the plot - driven to distraction by the oiks in the row behind, noisily chomping the contents of buckets twice the size of their fat heads and engaging in popcorn flicking contests when not loudly discussing half-term - or the sexual availability of ‘that slag, Paige’ - on their mobiles. ‘I’m at the cinema’ is the new ‘I’m on the train.’ Bring back the silent movies! 

The Save 6 Music petition

I’ve long held the BBC needs the budgetary equivalent of a gastric band but axing 6 Music is insane. An incubator for potentially world-conquering British musicians - watch Mumford & Sons go! - it’s run on a shoestring budget of around £9 million. Ditching it is the equivalent of a morbidly obese glutton removing the lettuce leaf from his afternoon snack of half a dead cow on a bun with chips. Slash the insane sums wasted on a bloated administration, vanity building projects, overpaid ‘talent’, Shearer and  Hansen’s taxis, or indecently large crews at events such as the Winter Olympics where BBC staff outnumbered Team GB. On breakfast TV, one fat cat chirruped that 6 Music’s output could be easily absorbed by Radio 1. So, they’ll play an obscure Welsh-language indie band between Gaga and Ke$ha?  Phil Jupitus rightly brands the threatened closure ‘an act of cultural vandalism.’ Join the clamour to save it at  http://www.petition.fm/ and remind the Beeb who foots the bill.    

And the winner is....

Beating Mariah Carey in the sort of slag rag Corrie's Liz Macdonald would fancy and Sigourney Weaver - clearly Alien to style in a red St Trinian's hockey slip thingy- the Oscar for worst dressed goes to Zoe Saldana  for this red carpet-rash, loo roll holder dolly's dress. It's apparently  'chic' according to my mate, Fashion Thing, who reported in on the bash from his distant star orbiting whatever planet the Na'vi inhabit. From planet moi, this looks  like it would bring my car's alloys up a treat; Zoe has nicked my local car wash's purple roller brushes and tacked them on to her hem. Hilary Alexander in the Telegraph rated her the best-dressed on the night. Shame Hil didn't go to Specsavers. It's by Givenchy, since you ask. Didn't he do the frocks for Breakfast at Tiffanys? Not loving his atelier's effort for the sequel -Dog's Dinner at the Kodak.

Clinton: she's a card!

So Señora de Kirchner - the only world leader who looks like she was cast from Desperate Housewives - snaps her manicured fingers and Hilarious Clinton comes rushing to Buenos Aires for a spot of 'friendly mediation' between the Argies and the Brits over the Falklands, thus  handing the former a diplomatic coup at the expense of Washington's  most faithful poodle...sorry, ally? Yalta/ Suez/ Eye-rack (as Americans annoyingly refer to it)...when will British governments learn that the Americans' idea of a special relationship translates as 'you bend over and we'll shaft you up the Twitter whilst preferably, simultaneously robbing you of your gold' as happened in WW2? What's to mediate on? Do the Falkland Islanders want to stay British or not? Mind you, I can see Agentina's point. How would we like it if a load of gauchos set up shop on the Isle of Wight? What? nobody would much notice? Cancel your hols to Disneyland! Boycott Oreos! Bodyswerve Aberzombie & Bitch! Refuse to buy Gaga tracks off iTunes and the next time Hil & co come looking for support for some fatally flawed Yankee misadventure, make her sit through a performance of Andrew Lloyd Wibbly Wobbly's Evita - that'll teach the interfering Clint!