A few years ago I found myself watching a television programme. It featured a house filled with people, none of whom I had heard of, and they were ranting and raving and their behaviour was, quite frankly, depraved and idiotic.
I turned to look at Mrs PM who was catatonic having been fully been sucked into the nonsense in front of her.
I realised that I, too, had been totally enthralled by the antics of these strange people.
I had a feeling in my stomach gradually began to take control. My brain, which was close to shutting down, began to react and found a new lease of life. My common sense slowly began to exert its influence on my comatose sensibility and suddenly I found myself blurting out the words that would save me:
“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE WE WATCHING THIS GARBAGE FOR?”
My outburst shocked Mrs PM back into the real world and instead of watching a bunch of idiots on the TV she had to endure a massive rant from the man in her life. It wasn’t long before she ushered me out of the room to rant to the cats instead.
For me it was a Eureka moment. I had seen the light. I realised a basic concept that I should have grasped years before. It became my mantra:
REALITY TV IS RUBBISH.
It was a life changing moment.
The programme we had been drawn into was Big Brother 2, the second series of one of the worst programmes ever to grace our TV screens.
Why was I watching it?
I don’t know, is the honest answer.
I had purposely missed the first series and caught part of the start of the second series on a Friday night after returning home, under the influence of a few beers from the pub. I still can’t fathom what possessed me.
I hated the contestants who were largely people who simply wanted to be famous but possessed absolutely no discernible talent.
Yet I still watched it.
The contestants were either extreme egomaniacs, deeply annoying at a primeval level, totally and utterly stupid, had no shame whatsoever or were a combination of all of the above.
And now we are inundated with programmes of a similar variety. In fact, it’s worse than that because now, failed celebrities desperate to kick start their careers, are humiliating themselves in the name of entertainment.
Big Brother has had its celebrity version and I’ve really never heard of many of these so-called stars. And not content with being locked up in a house for weeks, other celebrities allow themselves to be carted to a jungle in Australia and expose themselves as arses as they are forced to eat bugs, crawl through pits of snakes or wear a helmet full of cockroaches.
Yes – I’m talking about I’m a Celebrity! Get Me Out Of Here! – except, in my view the “celebrities” aren’t really celebrities – they are the dregs of the cult of celebrity, Z list celebrities, celebrities who have had their day and should just retire.
With the advent of satellite TV we now have approximately 1000 channels, most of which have nothing worth watching, but which the TV producers seem content to fill with reality rubbish.
I came home from the pub on another Friday night and caught a programme called Geordie Shore which features an obnoxious bunch of male arses from Newcastle who just want to “get pissed and pull women” and their female counterparts who would make any woman ashamed to be female.
It was so dreadful I didn’t know where to begin and for the first five minutes, at least, I sat there, so stupefied, my brain so focussed in disbelief at the chaos on the screen in front of me, that my mouth dropped opened and I drooled like a madman.
And then I said:
“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS CRAP?”
Geordie Shore is based on a similar American show called Jersey Shore, which I have never seen but I can imagine is just as dreadful.
Equally appalling is Made In Chelsea. I have never seen this show but the cast members have appeared on other TV shows as guests – as if they are really famous. And guess what? They are arses too.
What I find really sad about shows like this, is that if you want to be famous these days, all you need to do is switch off your brain and become an outrageous, egotistic, flamboyant narcissist and somehow convince a television producer that you have talent - even if you don't have any whatsoever.
All the TV producer then has to do is put together a whole bunch of these arses with the instruction:
“Just be as offensive and despicable as you can be and I will turn you into a star”.
Incredibly for some of these people such a ploy actually works. We see them on panel shows and on the front of tabloid newspapers.
How can “TV personality with no talent” be a job?
It makes my blood boil.
And that is why, dear reader, Reality TV is rubbish.
Of all of the items I have labelled as rubbish, this is the one that genuinely makes me angry. Such is the appetite for this car crash TV that audiences crave more and more. Each time a new show appears it is more depraved, more annoying and more shockingly dreadful that the last one.
Our TV airwaves are diseased because reality TV is spreading through the like a virus from country to country, gradually turning the human race into a species of catatonic brain-dead halfwits..
Big Brother is still going strong.
This is a crime against humanity.
The show was finally dropped by Channel 4 in the UK but Channel 5 have bought the rights and we are currently in the middle of Celebrity Big Brother with a new series destined to start in the summer.
Heaven help me! Can you believe that?
Perhaps I should work myself into a ranting frenzy and apply for the next series – and destroy the programme from within.
I would be tempted to become so obnoxious that the producers would sign me up in an instant.
“This is Plastic Mancunian, a 50 year old ranting arse who loathes Big Brother and all it stands for. He hates all of the other contestants by default.”
No – it’s just not worth it.
I don’t want to be famous for being famous.
I don’t want to walk into posh restaurants and say “Do you know who I am?” when they refuse to give me a table at the last minute.
I don’t want to be mocked mercilessly by comedians on late night panel shows.
I don’t want to have my face splashed over the front of tabloids for months and months.
I have a life.
Oh – and please don’t get me started on The X Factor – my cats will never forgive you.