Monday, August 05, 2002

Whatever happened to proper news broadcasts? I was watching the news today (it was on during one of my 'stop to feel isolated and crap' breaks that I need to take whilst writing nauseatingly florid things) by accident, I much prffer newspapers or radio broadcasts, but today I got the BBC televised news.
So what is with the chatting innanely about things between items??! Do we honestly care if one of the casters has been scuba diving in the shark tank that was featured on the last item, or that the other was in radio when she did it? No, we don't. What we care about is the news, not this insuffereable prattle.
And why exactly do we no longer sit *behind* desks but *in front* of them on bar stools? Is this meant to make us feel less isolated from the unreachable heights of newsreaders? Or perhaps this was the purpose of the male caster's barely-concealed Thames Estuary twang and the female caster's terrible dye job and posture? In any case, it wasn't even this travesty of British television which annoyed me quite so throroughly. Oh no, it was far far worse - it was the weather forecast. Let me explain...
A long time ago, before some of us were born, some men who had very warped imaginations made a wonderful programme known as "Monty Python's Flying Circus" (though it was originally to be called "Owl Stretching Time" and that's actually a fact) wherin there was much surreal comedy. It is on a fine institution such as Monty Python that we expect to find the percentage chance of a rain shower in different parts of the country marked by a kind of root vegetable, with a very large turnip signifying the highest chance of rain. We do not expect, nor want, this sort of thing on the weather forecast of the six o clock BBC news. What exactly was the point of such rubbish? It was too out of any kind of context to be funny, and it was evidently some terribly clever gimmick thought up by some people who are paid far too much to sit around and think of things like that for cutesy blonde weather girls who are far too pretty for the BBC to say whilst tossing their little blonde heads coquettishly and showing off their tasefully expensive yet fashionable outfits. And of course their tastelessly enhanced yet fashionable breasts. Isobel Lang started it, I vote we hang her.
Bring back proper news, I say, with stuffy middle class RP people sitting behind desks in smart suits and only chatting to each other after the lights go down and they shuffle their papers. We don't want the news for realistic slice-of-life gossip or fashion statements, we want it to find out who's bombing who, what hideous disease is threatening our children/pets/food supply/mohair sweater collection this week, and how much the hole in the ozone layer has grown lately.
Maybe it's time I crawled back to the Victorian era where I belong?
You know something. I'm bloody tired.
And I don't just mean I'm tired because I spent half the day shifting sand and cement about under the blazing sun, I mean I'm just *tired* - you know, where you just can't be bothered with life? Oh don't get me wrong, this isn't one of those tedious teenage "nothing is worth it, I'm going to kill myself" pieces of rancid drivel, nobody who writes them ever bloody means it. If you *meant* it you wouldn't write about it, you'd take a razor to your wrist. Yes I'm a cynic, bite me, Elizabeth Wurtzel, the paracetamol's in the cupboard you self-absorbed moneygrubbing pathetic bitch of a twiglet.
What I mean by tired of life is that it just doesn't mean anything in the sense of isn't it all a bit pointless and capitalistic. Now I'm not suggesting we adopt some fucked up Marxist rubbish that doesn't even work in hippy communes such as the House of LURPS, which incidentally sounds like it owes far more to the House of Frazer than the House of Usher. I'm just saying it doesn't seem to achieve anything. I'm writing, and I'm working, and I don't seem to be going anywhere, at all, let alone anywhere fast. So why am I doing all this? Doing a degree, improving my writing, making myself look faintly bearable every morning instead of showing my true squinty-eyed, welcome-to-the-jungle-haired, freckled and generally facially nasty self to the world? Well I suppose Aristotle would tell me that I am working towards eudaimonia, but you know what? He's dead, and I only listen to dead people when they say something worth hearing, like "in the beginning the Universe was created. This made a lot of people very unhappy and was generally regarded as a bad thing" which isn't just worth hearing, it's also true.
There really wasn't actually a point to this bout of existential nausea. I was just being a spolt little malcontent as usual. So what's life all about? Don't ask me, I just play the organ. And incidentally I just say that, it's a Goons quote - I don't really play the organ, though I do occasionally sit and make them make bad noises - in fact if you let me near an organ, I play *with* it if not actually *play* it. And I want one of my own, because they're impressive and I might one day learn to play it, which would also be impressive. God I'm babbling.