Wolf at the Door

The new incarnation of Doctor Who has it's critics, particularly on reflection on last week's episode - said critics included me, even if it did more than enough for me to enjoy it. Well, remember all that campy humour, silly investigation and odd looking cat people milling around in shiny rooms? Well, say a warm goodbye to it, suspectibe children!

The so called genius behind the recent incarnation of Doctor Who is head writer and executive producer Russell T. Davies, TV dramedy's go to Welshman - I very much like the series, but I always imagine if I met him at a party I'd have to look into his flamboyant, slightly rounded and spectacled face and lie through my teeth in regards to my opinions of his episodes. Whilst some have been good, last series's Aliens of London and the majority of the gentle reality TV on a huge space station satire, 'Bad Wolf', were fairly good fun, if not... well, a bit rubbish. He penned last week's opener, if you weren't aware... and alright, hang on, I'll get to the monsters in a minute.

As a child, I was quite sensitive - well, very sensitive, my dynamic imagination allowing episodes of Thomas the Tank engine to morph into terrifying Wes Craven suited visions of fear and malice. My Mother, who shared a similar haunted mind, would excitedly tell me about Doctor Who screening when she was a child, hiding behind the sofa, the Daleks, and so on. In which case, I must offer credit to Mr. Davies for this latest installment, as if I were still eight years old, I would have shat the spine out of my arsehole within twenty minutes.

The Dalek's mass onslaught in last year's series was widely touted as 'terrifying', after all, they have a spooky voice and can brutally desecrate the flesh of a human being with a laser in an instant. But they look like tin cans, and you just can't deny it. But a cold and unfriendly young boy, trapped in a cage, quickly and dramatically escaping, by means of morphing into a toothy, slobbering, eight foot werewolf and then stalking the halls of a Victorian manor, looking to take a meaty bite out of Queen Victoria and anybody who stands in her Majesty's way? That's scary.

But what really scares about this episode, is all in the buildup - shot boldly and cinematically, the story's hairless villian, sadly dispatched far too early on - he's shot by the Queen, which is a fairly unique way to go - stood out. Played by the excessively creepy Ian Hanmore, his gang of rogue Religous fanatics stormed the grounds of Torchwood Estate (get used to the word Torchwood by the way...) by flying kung fu force, knocked out and imprisoned all the staff, and then intended to infect the Queen with a werewolf bite, in a move that would likely send the Daily Mail into some sort of excitement coma. Then, by pure accident, The Doctor and Rose turn up.

The style of the show, a mix between 28 Days Later an M. Night Shayamalan film, with a dash of Hong Kong cinema, was gracious and demanding, even a little exhausting. In the 15 minutes of dramatic running around that filled the second act, I actually forgot the Doctor being there at all. It took a particularly energetic 'Eureka!' moment of his to remind me he had something to solve - and to his credit, he did solve it, although this conclusion was a little more coincidental than I'd come to expect. Indeed, the episode was perhaps too bombastic, that it left the finale a little unfulfilling.

These quibbles aside, we were left with a well constructed and refreshingly frightening episode, with no camp, and very little 'cute' - except the fairly enigmatic moment in which The Doctor and Rose fell from the centre of the shakey, wild Tardis onto the floor, giggling and grinning as if they'd both just cum furiously. Such a useful machine.

Think I've seen it all? I'll think again

If you happen to like this blog, you'll probably be happy to know that now the Doctor known as Who has returned to primetime BBC One. you're probably likely not to notice my laziness too much, as you're bound to get at least one weekly review. If you don't like Doctor Who, well I'm very sorry, and I entirely wonder why, fool.

However, if I were to introduce somebody who was notably, not a Who fan, the Series 2 opener wouldn't have been what I sat them in front of. Which is ironic really, as no doubt alot of it's 8 million viewers slotted right into that category.

Now, I'm not an outright Who fanboy - I don't scream bloody murder from the rooftops when theirs some sort of story anomaly, relating to Peter Davison in 198o something's Plague of the dreadful horses, nor do I bemoan the fact that the last series had a sexually open alien shagger as a latecomer as a hero figure, or anything like that. I like the show as it's snappy, imaginative, doesn't feature a text vote and clearly has had a lot of time spent on it, even if the effects aren't exactly of Stargate or 24's calibre... but one series in, and Doctor Who is clearly as always, made by it's story quality.

For the first epsiode, the 'new' Doctor has taken Rose, who isn't exactly mortified to leave home, to a planet called New Earth, which is so far in the future, that it's even past the episode in the last series, in which the Doctor (who then looked like Christopher Eccleston, not David Tennant - their was a re-generating issue, really, get a hold of the first series...) took Rose to a space station to watch the sun absorb the National Trust funded 'earth' - ie. the planet we live on right now. Anyway, nostalgia prevaled, and our heroic twosome were flirting around on the apple grass meadows of New New York (Futurama fans will recognise that...), when suddenly, the Doctor is drawn to a hospital which is run entirely by cat women. Esentially, they look alot like women, but kind of like cats too, and you'll never guess what - they seem to be hiding a dark secret!!!

Before long, Rose, played with bombast and precision by an increasingly attractive Billie Piper, has her body taken over by a human called Cassandra, approaching a couple of thousand years of age, who exists solely on one large stretch of skin - her back this time, as when we witnessed her vain and evil deeds previously, she exploded all over the walls. Some fairly amusing body swapping took place, luckily just avoiding some 5,000,000 years AD farce, and the Doctor uncovered that this team of clever pussies were infecting imprisoned humans with viruses and infections, as a way of curing other patients. He helps the patients. Theirs lots of running around. A moral ending. Hooray!

This was a good episode. But, for it's moments of darkness (infected beings escape from metallic pods to stalk around a hospital) and drama (the Doctor creates a 'fantastic' new sub species) it was, undoubtedly very silly. It was good fun all the same, and no doubt Russell T. Davies is leading us into another cracking set of stories, including no doubt a new 'mystery element', similar to last year's Bad Wolf 'message' - my money's on 'The Face of Boe' revealing his big secret, as theirs no way the BBC wouldn't recycle a prop that big for starters - but it was all a bit daft. But, like the Doctor, I'll give it wise time.

Luckily, the preview for next week's darkly toned installment, set in Victorian Scotland, features evil kung-fu monks, a scary looking werewolf and Queen Victoria herself brandishing a pistol. Welcome back.

Look into my internal organs, focus on the internal organs

Yeah, right, what's your favourite thing about anaesthetic? In the world? Let me guess... the fact that, whilst undergoing surgery that's major or minor, it helpfully stops your head from wanting to explode with the sheer agony of it all? Beacuse your knocked out? That's a marvellous commodity isn't it? But don't get ahead of youself, take a leaf from your Mother's book, and stop and think. Some poor people can't use anaesthetic, as it triggers a really nasty reaction in them, and so they are forced to endure a variety of slightly less straight forward ways of being knocked for six whilst their spleen is fondled by some undergraduate's hand.

Hypnosis is now an uncommon option for these poor people, and the 'Adult Entertainment' channel More4 decided to broadcast a live Hernea operation with some poor chap under rather undercomplicated hypnosis, in Hypnosurgery Live. An enthusiastic Sarah Smith was on hand in the studio, to provide commentary and opinion from those in the 'theatre', whilst proffesionals scurried around at half the speed they do on E.R. Despite being for the 'thnking man', their was not a doubt in my mildly knowledgable mind that the appeal of the programme was as much to raise 'debate' as it was to entertain voyeuristic viewers with both ruptured skin and soaking, bloodied innards and the possiblity of the whole experiment failing, and the candidate screaming a variety of obscene words whilst the studio crew desperately tried to tie him down. I'm sorry to report, this didn't happen, and viewers endured lots of 'comment' and 'figures' and very little (wait, no!) howling at all. When the bearded man who had undergone the operation woke up - in no time at all - he declared in a camp manner that I just never saw coming, "Oooh, I'm fine matey, just get me a cup of tea and a ham sandwich!" See, with medical hypnosis, even a hernia operation can be a flamboyant jaunt!

Following this, we were provoked more so by more facts and figures, and the man's Mother declaring him, "Well, I mean, he's a hero, having this done, on live television. Amazing." Well, had he died of pain during the operation, I imagine she'd have had a similar reaction, albeit with more tears. More importantly, this elderly lady had clearly never seen anything on 'Living TV', where if a programme doesn't feature a man in a big coat communicating with somebody's dead relative, then a work experience assistant is sneaking up from behind to cut the interviewee's face open. This mutilation will then be re-edited from four different camera angles, accompanied by thudding incidental music, and a slow motion shot of her husband in the corner looking shocked, appalled, yet ever so hopeful they'll sort out her arse too. And they probably would.

Out of the top 20 listed 'Top Shows' on Living TV's website, half feature communication with the dead or plasitc surgery and/or body mass issues. It's a glossy Victorian freak show, what it'd look like if Doctor Gus Van Sant and Mr. Ripley edited an issue of Heat. It's rubbish, really. My favourite Living TV quality American import, was The Swan. Oh, for reference, I've seen so much of this garabage as my Mum watches it far too much, and yes, she is trash, obviously. Anyway, in The Swan a line of lovely middle class American 'soccer moms' would moan about their faces on mailed in videos, often breaking down in tears. Some were so obsessed and disgusted with their faces, they'd worry their children would disown them and their husbands would have affairs. Now, that's both overblown and sad, but theoretically, whatever way you look at it, it's not really right to watch. The producers took the hopefuls to a ranch, which importantly didn't have mirrors. Here, expensive plastic surgeons gave these women the chance of happiness for free, and would take various tools to their body to re-itterate them and feed them back into the cruel, finger pointing, close minded world on endless recorded video.

Soon, without having a glimpse of their faces - it's not mentioned whether well polished windows and concave metal spoons were allowed or not - they take part in a talent contest, and are judged. The winner gets £100,000, the losers get to keep their new faces, and probably get a night in a Best Western or something. Of course, when they see their new appearance, the women are consistently delighted. It's not Changing Rooms - you can't throw matte gloss over a newly profiled forehead.

I'd insert a witty summary here, but I think it's fair to say you get the idea.

I'm not going to provide the times of these shows showing - one was live and has finished, and the other's 60 minutes could be substituted with a healthy walk or sticking a fork in your eye.

Singles

Yeah, I know - you people want to know what singles to buy on CD or download this week don't you? But what's the best way to spend a couple of hard earned quid? You want the advice of a trendy young hipster with quite clearly superior opinions, and the oh so cool and definitive Radio 1 playlist is in his hand? Well, you've come to the right reviews blog.

Big mainstreamy singles out this week...

U2 and Mary J. Blige - One Love... This is perhaps the most uneccesary re-record of a well regarded track ever, adding a mind numbingly dull round of vocal acrobatics to Bono's already rather pretentious sounding, but standable, singing/whinging. The worst part is the finale, when Miss Blige takes the abrupt liberty of hitting several difficult notes - horribly show offy.

The Streets - When You Wasn't Famous... Talking of showing off, you know Mike Skinner from The Streets? Yes, well he doesn't just hopelessly wander the streets like a lovelorn homeless man accompanied by a cute dog anymore. No, he spends his time snorting cocaine and shagging pop stars, and being a right on the money bloke, sees the opportunity to tell us all about it.

This is a brilliantly produced single, and despite the fact it makes it increasingly harder to think of Mike as the 'bloke down the pub' figure, it's lyrically honest and refreshing, as well as typically witty and outright ("Considering the amount of prang you done/ you looked amazing on CDUK.") I await the new album with mild anticipation.

Editors - All Sparks... I like the Editors (sorry, I've slowly given up on being pedantic and naming them without the prefix), but this is one of the lesser tracks on a really very good album. It plods along, it sounds quite angry, it thuds along and builds quite nicely - it's very good live, for example. However, this is really rather unremarkable compared to Munich or Fingers in the Factories.

The Kooks - Naive... Awww, The Kooks. A nice, sunny little indie piece from the fairly sunny little indie band. This is chirpy and catchy, just like their last single, which despite being about unavoidable heartbreak, was also lovely and catchy. Still, I didn't reckon they'd get away with releasing Jackie Big Tits.

The most notable album release is Embrace - This New Day. i haven't listened to it online, on account of their single, Nature's Law, currently at #2 in the UK Single's chart, being nothing short of disgusting to listen to. It has no redeeming features. :)

Modern Apprenticeship

I’d love to be Sir Alan Sugar.

It must be absolutely brilliant really, you’ve not only got your own helicopter, brilliant power, you’re a ‘Sir’ (I don’t know quite what that entails, but it must be good) but you have a hit TV series, a great business mind, and raise lots and lots for a children’s hospital. A children’s hospital!

During each episode of The Apprentice, Alan barks his catchphrase, “You’re Fired!” Like all catchphrases this is annoying when said by anybody but Alan. But one look at his sharp, feline like eyes and twitchy little beard, and you know if you went right up to Sir Alan on the street and recited it, you’d probably end up with both a smack in the mouth and a lawsuit. You don’t mess with Sugar, if you’ve got an ounce of sense.


If you haven’t seen The Apprentice, the first point to be raised is “Why?” and if you haven’t seen The Apprentice, but you have seen lots of Celebrity Love Island, you probably need to re-think your life. Sir Alan Sugar is a very rich man, very demanding, but utterly fair and righteous – each week he sets a team of boys and a team of girls a business task, to prove their abilities in the harsh, cold, corporate world. Even for a casual viewer, it is clear The Apprentice is a Picasso compared to the vast majority of others reality shows – shot stunningly, with lots of nice helicopter angles, everybody struts around looking serious, from one stern looking building to another, talking on black flip phones. Yes, this is silly – The Apprentice is a game show, no matter what channel it’s on or it’s critical acclaim, but it’s the best game show in years, and this style only makes it more compelling when a grown adult starts to cry because the other team members disagree with him on a flipchart.

Although The Apprentice is presented in a nice, sleek package, it shares many of the same foibles that attract millions to Big Brother every summer – the contestants here are ignorant, self important, manipulative, rude and usually, sickeningly cocksure. But they’re more pretentious than you’d care to believe too, and that’s the key to the rather sadistic pleasure in seeing an established businessman ruin the dreams of a thirty something that has read too many mission statements, drawn too many mind maps and seen too many motivational videos.

In last night's episode the most prominent of these overconfident slimeballs was 'fired', a man named Mani, who describes himself as a master of public speaking - a key tool for when each team presents their product or idea (this week, a snappily put together advertising campaign for Sir Alan's elite private jet business, both concepts looking like 1990's Barclays adverts). Mani wasn't handed the reigns like you might expect, generally because his past work at these tasks has been like the reality television of watching a 1970's British racial comedy with Spike Lee. In short, he's no expert, he's diabolical. Even when driven away from the competition in a car speeding doewn a dual carriageway, he still garbles on like he's in the team. Next up, it must be Jo, a woman with a face so blindingly irritating and the morals and attitude of a stubborn eight year old - she desvcribes herself as 'loopy and a bit mad'. Sodding hell, I feel like burning down a shed watching her, so God knows how the people working with her feel. Well, fine now, I expect, after all it was filmed last summer.

Now here's a thought - a few evenings ago, I heard my Mum and Dad chuckling loudly at something on TV. Loudly. What would it be that had managed to make them roar with delight so unceremouniously?! Just for Laughs, on Paramount Comedy. Just for Laughs, if you've never seen it, basically consists of three or four silent 'artists' playing gentle and vaguely amusing pranks on people walking back to their office from M&S. Which must be really rather annoying. For example - a man dressed as an alien hops out of a bush and waves his arms around. A bloke is obnoxiously reading a newspaper whilst walking hovers in the way of people on the pavement. A wallet is left on the floor... pensioner picks it up, takes it to a nearby police car. Booo! A plastic skeleton is lifted up to the window, and she jumps a foot. All set to a suitably weird Casio keyboard soundtrack. Ever seen a German cable channel? It's like a throwback to something from the thirties, except if in the thirties it'd be funnier - people wouldn't react, or they would, violently and quickly. Regrettably, Just for Laughs takes place in some lovely middle class area of North London, where people are always up for a good old giggle.

They were watching it as my Mum's friend's cousin's uncle Jimmy's dog Bert could be seen briefly on a plinth in the background, or something equally stupid - are people really that impressed by being on TV, like, grown adults? On Just For Laughs?! This week, I've been reminded to watch The Games (you know, the olympics, were it organised by Heat magazine) as a few friends of mine will be in the audience for the show, and I might spot them. For about 2 seconds, maximum - The Games doesn't like lengthy shots, the audience doesn't seem to be able to stomach them. What I failed to mention is, I've just spent a weekend with them - any opportunity to briefly glimpse their faces would have been fulfilled then, thankyou very much. Hell, I could have gone for a flat out stare if I wanted! I'll stop now, however if you enjoyed this fun spoiling viewpoint, you can look forward to it's ressurection in the coming months, as soon as 2006's 3 month Big Brother begins. :)

• The Apprentice - BBC 2, Wednesday's 9PM, or for clips and the latest episode in full, visit www.bbc.co.uk/apprentice
• Just For Laughs - Saturdays and Sundays, Paramount Comedy 1 & 2, 11AM and 8PM.
• The Games - Nightly, Channel 4 - 9PM.
• Big Brother - May-August, Channel 4 and E4. All the fucking time.

A Brief Update

Well, yeah, their should be a review of The Apprentice here, but I got stranded in Coedpoeth, a village near Wrexham, and I was too busy sellotaping flowers temporarily to a window frame to watch it, but it awaits on my Sky Plus.

Alas, I did watch Footballer's Wives, a programme which I don't watch religously, but that's great, because it's so absurdly stupid even to look at, it probably helps that you don't know what the hell is going on, and thread your own plot into the episode. Anyway, tonight's edition featured angry Amber dressing as Kali, the Indian God of rage, a mockery of a culture so amazingly awful, her Indian parents should never speak to her again. Anyway, embodied with a vengeful spirit - a feat she achieved by whispering and blinking for 10 seconds, she naturally took a shotgun out stalking into a ridiculous garden party featuring all the regular characters, including that tarty one, the one who's a bit of a tart, the kind hearted scouse tart, and the bloke who seems to be a low rent Kanye West who goes out with the promiscous bi-sexual tart. Here, she held a large shotgun at the head of abusive Bruno, who killed her ex-husband (yeah, I think...) and mumbled she was going to shoot him right in his perfectly framed face. Of course she didn't, as it was the 9PM slot and an older tart screamed something, and knocked the gun out of the path of Bruno, and into the path of club manager Roger's eyes, which proceeded to bleed rather heavily.

Amber was stripped of her Widow Twanky make up and Sari, then forcibly detained under the mental health act (we know this as she was in a wheelchair, being pushed along a long, whitewash corridor) and Roger woke up a bit buggered, seemingly having been permanently blinded. Meanwhile, Tanya the tart who was really evil in the previous series's, was making her way back home to some sort of... funeral thing. Dressed sombrely, she left her dead husband's ashes with a confused baggage handler. I say I watched Footballers Wives, I didn't really, as all this crap happened between 21:57 and 21:59, which is around two and half minutes. Next week, if to confirm how much of an amazingly entertaining turd of a show this is, Joan Collins turns up and, in the preview, we see her kiss some attractive young man much to some other tart woman person, opening her mouth shocked and appaled, as is bloody Gospel.

Slightly skewer to Footballer's Wives is Charlie Brooker's Screen Wipe, on BBC 4, which features the rather angry and hilarious columnist and friend of Chris Morris, Charlie Brooker, discussing TV, whilst being nothing like the equally good Harry Hill's TV Burp. He's only produced three episodes, but I believe this latest is repeated sometime over the weekend. So find it... or else. If you like this blog, you'll like Screen Wipe, as it's ten times as funny, and much harsher.

Both Drunk and Dangerous

You can't help but feel a bit smug as you settle down to 'Drunk and Dangerous: A change in..." Well, I don't actually know what it's a change in, as my Sky planner refuses to list it properly, as does my printed TV guide. A change in the alcohol level in the body's blood system leads to drunken idiocy and arrests? Yeah, that'll do.

You know the type of show - handheld cameras watch lovely and likable police officers reluctantly take upon drunks, and in this case, force them to clean up their mess in front of their mates. But they laugh, their mates relish in their friend mopping up their own liquids from the floor. A few weeks ago, I got very drunk in my local, and I was told that me and my friend garnered several complaints - sure, I don't know what I did, I was so drunk, but still I was embarassed. It felt horrible, and demeaning, and I was barely happy about it. I didn't cheer, or laugh, or do anything vaguely celebratory. I actually rather like getting drunk, but at the same time I'm utterly fascinated by the principle of it. The product of a unhappy nation with it's feelings held within.

Anyway, to add to the sense of smugness, Jamie Theakston, the king of smug narrates from what I imagine to be a big smug, leather chair - "Britain. Has a serious drink problem", says the man who harsher critics would now point out was once shamed for visiting several hookers on one night whilst plastered off his well trimmed little face. Not a particularly startling fact in this 'special edition' of this programme I've never taken the time to see before, in which we see the effects of 24 hour drinking. Most interesting to me was the show's feature on Wrexham, the North Walesian town which builds the blocks of my education five days a week. In fact, it was somewhat interesting to see people vomiting and/or pissing in doorways to sandwich shops I regularly visit. I learnt too - I'd often wondered what the lights in the floor were to do. Apparently this helps drunks and calms the atmosphere. Well... no it doesn't, because in 10 minutes of this programme we saw a helpless drunk chased down the street by an officer - like a disabled rabbit in a hunt, a mouthy bloke with a strong accent get pepper sprayed in the eyes, and a guy surely no older than 14, having his arm twisted, while screaming things like,

"ARGH ME FUCKIN ARM MATE, THERE AINT NO CICU-SHIT, NO CIRCU-CIRCULATION MATE,
ARGH, FUCK!"

And, the rather prompting, yet useless,

"GEDOFF ME YOU FUC...RAGH,AN OW, SHIT, MATE, NO, AWW LEMME ARM GO MATTTTE, GO ON
MATE."

I must confess, I've never been out in Wrexham on a Friday night, so for all I know this could just have been craftily edited - the young and dynamic, yet slightly pretentious young people drinking Merlot and discussing the arts in a cosy corner shamefully (or shamelessly) deleted from the final edit. However, I also know what you just read about 20 words ago is utter rubbish, and Wrexham is home to lots of cleavage, piss, vomit, 'Section 5 Abusive Language' and much more over a weekend. Granted, this weekend was that before Christmas, and so naturally, everybody's stupidly drunk anyway, but I'm sure it only helped emphasise the point - 24 Hour Drinking Is Bad! (Or is it? The BBC aren't stating that, honest, it's up to you, dearest licence fee payer.)

By the time we'd visited Dover, where we witnessed such astounding dialogue as,

Increasingly Fed Up Policeman: "Look, keep using language like that, and I'll have to arrest you under the public order act."
Increasingly Drunk Man Thing: "Oh, so you think cos' I swore at me sister, in conversation, that you can just go an arrest me, is that what you're saying mate?!"
Now officially annoyed Policeman: "Yes. I am."

we had come to the end of the programme, and I was reminded why I avoid this sort of 'hard-hitting documentary'. In the doorway of a newsagents I regularly pop into for tic tacs and a pie, a lone drunk was urinating, struggling to keep up on his little feet. Except the shot was black and white, and in slow motion. The man turns around. He's too old for this rubbish, surely. Barely noticing the camera lens pointed directly at him, he ambles off into the night. We zoom in, still in dramatic slo-mo, on his puddle of piss, trickling away. And I laughed a tragic laugh, and I felt oh so smug. Just like Theakston.

The picture featured in today's entry is what I got whilst searching 'Drunken Behaviour' - they're from a farmers union, and hence I imagine, the woman is the farmer's wife, the man in the middle is the farmer, and the bloke on the right is the farmer's mate who'll probably end up in bed with both of them within an hour. Despite this, I cannot explain the meat dangling from a piece of rope.

My Name is Earl

If you haven't taken the time to watch My Name is Earl (Fridays, 10PM, C4) yet, then you probably should, as I almost guarantee you'll very much enjoy it. The premise is that Earl Hickey (Jason Lee), a scruffy Southerner from the Bible belt of the United States, is hardly brimming with personal morals - in the first episode, we witnessed Earl take a break from petty and thoughtless theft to buy a lottery ticket, which subsequently wins him $100,000. At this pivotal moment, Earl was run over by a speeding pensioner, and hospitalised. Which must be quite annoying, even though it's fair to say, Earl had it comin'.

In his ward, Earl witnessed a cheesy motivational telesale involving karma, and from that moment on, decided he would dedicate his life, and new found wealth, to doing right to all the wrongs in his life from a lengthy list of 266 bad deeds he made on his near-death bed. Each episode, Earl attempts one or two, taking his daft and easily provoked brother along to help, whilst still maintaining his charming hickory wit and traileresque lifestyle. Awww.

Luckily, Earl is never as sacharine as this, although it does usually contain slushier moments towards the end, a plague of modern American sitcoms. Which is a shame, because although it's interminently rather daft, anybody with a heart can see the soul of the show without need for group hugs. This means it quite easily gets away with plots involving stealing a one legged woman's car, a pushy, borderline cruel parent with a penchant for throwing knives and memorably recalls a time when a younger, more hyperactive Earl burnt down a barn at a troubled youth camp.

Earl is from the producers of Family Guy, a show which is clearly proud of it's 'wrong' - where as it throws in similar comedic ideas, Earl is forgivingly less harsh, and much more well rounded. And it's proving popular both sides of this 'pond' we hear so much about. My Name is Earl is a bit like the first time you drink whiskey - your face snarls up, you'll probably make an exagerated spitting noise and reveal some croaking laughter, but afterwards, you'll feel quite warm inside.

Starting soon, and in a similar vein, is Everybody Hates Chris (Five, 8PM, Sundays) a sitcom from 'motormouth' comedian Chris Rock, the main subject of which is how Chris was pushed around as a young, defenceless child by his relatives and friends, which has also been hailed by critics as 'warm and funny'. So, as you can see, Torment + lack of morals + moderate bouts of violence x redemption = hilarious, warm hearted family fun.

Naturally, I'm currently developing a sitcom in which a youth is released early from Feltham prison, buys a strong willed donkey off a geezer, and rides to Durham and back, fighting crime though gentle persuasion and pie charts. It will be called Jimmy Reform and Ted - The Badass Statistical Mule. Look out for it.

In other TV comedy news, soul man turned jazz singer, Isaac Hayes has left satirical toon South Park, after nearly a decade in the role. The singer helped launch the show in 1997 with the hit single 'Chocolate Salty Balls', and has since played the role of sex mad Chef... the chef. As of late, Mr. Hayes hasn't been seen in the show too much, which means his loss won't hit too hard. You see, Isaac has recently started to dig Scientology (the Religous umm... institution, also adored by Tom Cruise and John Travolta. The belief was responsible for the film Battlefield Earth - judge it for yourself), and was unhappy at the show's creator's satire of the religion - apparently he's not into ripping into spiritual beliefs. Of course, this is evidence that the man has been living under a rock for the past ten years, and seems to think he has been recording material for Sesame Street. Life will go on.

Hello

Hello Reader,

And welcome to Stunned Senseless, a written foray into the entertaining, the meaningless, the good, the bad, the unbelievable and the ugly on TV, with bits and bobs of Film and Music and Other Stuff thrown in.