Let me tell you a story, a sad story. In fact, it is the
sort of story that will have animal-liberation types up in arms (which will
give the labs a welcome break).
Where are PETA when
your petta deserves better?
There was once a little degu - we’ll call him Roger because
that was his name – who was adopted and then rejected by two homes until it
came to pass that he wound up sharing Degu HQ with The Human, though she would
tell you that I share it with her. (But as she’s blonde we won’t give her too
much credit for knowing stuff.)
When I was rescued from the cesspit that was my former home
I imagined that things would improve for me. Indeed, for a short time there was
a great improvement; until the television happened. Followers of my tweets will
know by now that The Human and I are locked in a stalemate over what is
acceptable television viewing. The power struggle for the remotecontrolmabob
is, at times, unpleasant.
Let’s get ready to
rumble
I favour intellectual viewing. Programmes from which I can
learn something. The Human, however, prefers to watch the sort of programmes
that were developed to keep the intellectually bankrupt in their homes, rather
than standing about looking malevolent on street-corners in their hooded
jerseys and intimidating senior citizens (when they’re not being hugged by
David Cameron). She watches the sort of television programmes for which there
are not even writers, so bad are these programmes that no one will take
responsibility for them, and the general public are required to telephone the
station to suggest an ending for the show.
I am, of course, referring to “reality tv”. And is it ever realistic!
It is a regular reality that groups of z-list celebrities get stranded in forests
with whole camera crews and Geordie pixies to commentate upon their antics. Let’s
get ready to rumble, indeed.
I’m a Z-lister,
liberate me from this appallingly fake jungle set…
Tonight, for example, on “I’m a Celebrity…” I have had the
misfortune to watch celebrities so old that The Human has no idea who they are.
Actually, I ran in my wheel, loudly, for the majority of it in an attempt to
sabotage her viewing. Unfortunately she has located the “volume up” button,
which is progress but, for my purposes, a great shame.
One of the “celebrities” – known as Mark Towie (funny
surname, but never mind) – is famous for being on a reality television show.
That aside, every time he has to do a “task” he proudly informs the other
“celebrities” that “thees iz mah pho-bee-ah”. None of these “celebrities” speak
correctly, it’s as if the letter “t” – which I’m certain brought us Sesame
Street on more than one occasion – has been rendered obsolete.
Pat “Fun House” Sharp – who is much less fun sans
cheerleaders – has lost so much weight since the programme began that I can’t
be sure whether he is a celebrity or an extra from Schindler’s List, which
makes me start to wonder whether this programme is setting a great example. I
am fairly certain that there are impressionable morons out there – such as The
Human – who will see this and try the bean-and-rice diet. But he appears to
have left in the middle of the episode, and not for perving on the girls in the
“jungle shower” as they wash in their bikinis. Heaven forbid these girls should
cover themselves up or act with dignity. A degu might almost start to question
whether they are really there for the “jungle experience” or do they just want
modelling contracts. Gee, let me ponder that one…
The point of this programme appears to be watching
celebrities embarrass themselves. I am fairly certain that embarrassing is The
Human falling off her own desk at work (much to the wry amusement of twenty
prepubescent boys). I am not, however, convinced that embarrassing is watching
two grown adults, one of whom has represented her country to Olympic level,
stick her head in a goldfish bowl with soldier crabs or crickets or scorpions
or whatever those poor animals were that had to suffer Fatima Whitbread’s
company.
Snorting cockroaches instead
of cocaine?
Tonight there was the distinct “bonus”, if you can call it
that, in that Fatima got a cockroach and a mealworm stuck up her nose. This is
almost as exciting as watching Freddie Starr have an allergic reaction to the
kangaroo naughties that he had to eat a fortnight ago. This is not
entertainment and it isn’t reality. The reality is the neglected degu
imprisoned next to the televisionmabob who needs entertainment.
By this time, as you can imagine, I am chewing through the
damned aerial cable in an attempt to shut this nonsense off. Can it really be
that imperative to The Human’s career that she watches this drivel? Are there
not better ways to build a relationship with the teenagers you teach? Does it
have to involve the aural and mental torture of the degu in your life?
Gadzooks!
The Human enjoys watching this programme for the moment when the celebrities have to do something involving spiders, of which she is perennially afraid. So why watch? Apparently the answer to this is that she wants to burst my eardrums with her infernal squeaking and screeching. Rudies.
Finally, if eating from the show’s sponsor will mean
“partying like a celeb” than I infinitely prefer my anonymous life, complete in
its lack of public recognition…
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