Tell me something. Why the hell are we subjected to The Royal Variety Performance every bloody year? It's been polluting our screens since forever with people who dance to the beat of basketballs and cardboard tubes, folk singers who sing about 'love' even though their cynical faces tell us they've never experienced it and comedians who muster as many laughs as my flatulance does after a chronic 23 hour burst. It's been going on probably since the Queen Mother popped the funny looking Queen out of her chuff and still I don't know what the hell it's all about. Possibly it's a charity thing and an excuse for the uglier than thou Royals to grace the public with their respectless presence. It's a sham. Last night we were privy to the usual wonderless acts where a granny with spindly legs hollered into the crowd to tell us she was still here, as if we could have failed to notice, an aged never been funny 'comic' used sexual innendo a bit too liberally and all the shit pop acts, who thought it was such an honour to be asked, performed badly in worse clothes. And what's it all about when they get these second rate pop acts to introduce an act, disallow them to sing and make them crack over-rehearsed jokeless jokes which would have left even the Queen Mom turing in her fresh grave. It's embarrassing. And if those acts are supposed to be some sort of reflection on the British culture then we are taken to be a bunch of arrogant pricks with a sense of humour which insists we laugh at the gay 'jokes' because it's cool and that we must listen to humiliating pathetic sexual conotation jokes which leave us picturing Bruce Forsyth (a well past it TV presenter) in the scuddy. I didn't think anything could put me off my hangover cheese and toast until that moment. And how many hours did it go on for? About 48. And who booked Gareth 'Turd Hair' Gates to do his rendition of Elvis? Does that boy need any more excuses to strutt around thinking he is an Elvis reincarnate?
In all the years it has been on, the only memorable act for me was when Neighbours was at its peak and the cast did some sort of shit skit. Now that
was classic television; watching dodgy Australian Z list soap actors with mullets and perms and stonewashed jeans curtseying and guffawing in front of our gammy haired, big eared monarchy. If I ever decide to put myself through the torture of this again and am faced with people skipping around like nobs and singing in stupidly loud theatrical voices I will put my fat fist through the television and extract Bruce Forsyth's innards personally. And then we will see how he likes to have the shit ripped out of him.
And so I go to reflect on how good Austrailian soaps really are and thank the lord above for Flick Scully and her bad acting soap family.