Saturday Night at the London Palla- Oh, Hang On...

Britishness is a curious thing, tricky to quantify exactly. I know where I am on a scale of weeping at Elgar's Nimrod to putting little flags on a white van, but the two aren't necessarily mutually exclusive, yet (and allow me to be painfully middle class for a moment- although I've already given that away by admitting to the whole Elgar thing ((I just have something in my eye is all))) is there perhaps anything that presents pure concentrated Britishness quite like the Proms and, more specifically, the Last Night of the Proms. Who could argue with the flag-waving and everyone joining in (each in his or her own key ((Tom Lehrer references for the win)) of course) with Elgar's magnificent arrangements of Parry's 'Jerusalem' and 'Land of Hope and Glory'?

Well, I'll tell you who could argue with that: Bruce Forsyth and Tess Daly, that's who. For, on the very same evening as the Royal Albert Hall shook to the thundering chorus of Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1 in D Major, BBC Television centre shook to the thundering chorus of clumsy footing and celebrity clapping as another team of hapless but enthusiastic amateurs took to the floor for the launch of the new series of Strictly Come Dancing. Alright, so the events that I've listed didn't exactly coincide per se, but it sounds much more exciting this way. I should also point out that this 'launch' of Strictly Come Dancing came 3 weeks before the actual series begins and mostly resembled a PE class where Ann Widdecombe was inevitably picked last.

The roster was revealed, featuring such pop culture luminaries as Paul Daniels and Goldie, to a series of increasingly laboured gags and then paired off predictably with the show's professionals (that's 'predictably' as in the pairings were predictable, rather than them obviously being paired with professionals as opposed to say goats or members of the BNP) over what seemed like about 5 or 6 hours, with the pauses usually reserved for results shows used here simply before reading out a name in a bottom-clenchingly infuriating waste of airtime. Instead of those pauses we could have had more dances choreographed by the new team of old favourites like 'that one that won with Ramprakash' and 'the other guy, you know, the blonde one' where people drop from the ceiling on wires to swing jazz versions of pop-rock.

I say predictable pairings, by that I mean that as soon as I heard Widdecombe was involved, it was patently obvious that she would be given to Anton, who I can only assume did something to massively upset the production staff somewhere around the second series and has carved out a living as a sort of carer for the celebrities with the most left feet. I also had a suspicion that male duffer of the series Paul Daniels would be inflicted upon Ola, after her triumph last year, that proved well-founded. After each group of 3 or so pairings, Brucie would hand over to the judging panel for ludicrous conjecture from Len about 'surprise packages' and 'good pairings' based on nothing but the brand new celebrities' abilities to walk down stairs without breaking an ankle, nonsensical, superlative silliness from Bruno, camp cynicism from the maestro Craig and well, a look from Alesha that suggested she was just happy to still be there being, as she is, in no way a qualified professional dancer/choreographer.

I'll offer my own staggeringly unfounded speculations right here, right now -

• Patsy Kensit - Will be one of those ones who's either really good or really rubbish.
• Gavin Henson - Might just be too big a rugby player to be good at celebrity dancing. Good feet for a big lad, though.
• Tina O' Brien - Oh yeah! I remember her out of off of Corrie.
  
• Jimi Mistry - He'll do well... I've seen The Guru...
• Ann Widdecombe - Could be painful, but she's no X-Factor-class mug without an iota of self-awareness. She knows exactly what she's doing. Sadly, this isn't Celebrity Big Brother and 'game-plans' won't get you anywhere if Anton can't swing you around his head like a cape.

Boom!

Twitocracy...

As usual I opened my copy of the Guardian G2 this morning and so was I struck by this particular piece on the opening page.

Now, I can't profess to be an expert on Kanye West or any other rap singers for that matter, but I do know a little about Twitter. Essentially some chap has earned 1,6000 followers overnight for asking this West chap about toothpaste. To someone like me who has spent over a year of effort and acerbic wit on Twitter for a return of 3 more followers than people I follow (at time of writing) it's a bit of a kick in the teeth.

The article makes the very valid point that Twitter isn't a democracy. Some people have millions of followers for tweeting things like "Today I got up", while many, many others have far fewer than they deserve. I could reel off a list of dozens of wonderful people I've met through the medium of 140 character thoughts whose wit merits so much more exposure than it gets.

To offer some manner of remedy to this, Twitter is rolling out a new recommendations system whereby on your profile it gives you people 'like' you. I got Guardian TV critic Julia Raeside (among others) and put out a shameless plug to test reaction

Hello. Are you a fan of Guardian TV critic @JNRaeside? If so, then you'll just love me (according to Twitter). #shamelessplugthatwillnotwork

Sadly, the results of this social experiment are yet to appear. So I can either hold out for a bit or just draw the conclusion that the 'you might like' feature is a complete waste of time that doesn't so much open you to prospective followers as simply show you people with similar quality content who are much more popular than you.

It is obvious that celebrity aids one's quest to reach a gargantuan number of computer screens across the world, but I can't help but feel Twitter is very much a largescale popularity contest, with a smaller cult usage to share jokes and make new friends. Many eminently talented comedians have followings that pale in comparison to, say, Justin Bieber or some other expendable, whiny, popular hominin. While I'll stop short of advocating a full-on meritocracy, there should definitely be some sort of handicap system to stop rap-singers/Bieber/general famous bods from taking over completely.

Ahem...

Hayward Ho...

Well, happy axe news emerged this week with the revelation that head of BP and walking PR Mr. Magoo Tony Hayward would be leaving his post. Sadly this also means that he'll be able to collect a no doubt sizeable pension for mainly fucking up a large section of the Louisiana coast.

This is the man who, fresh in the wake of the disaster, said "nobody wants this to be over more than me. I want my life back". Really, Tony? You know who else want their lives back? The residents of the Gulf of Mexico... oh and all the pelicans and ducks that you covered in your godawful, crude slop, but something tells me that they can't all go to a yacht race and then receive a bung to leave a job that they frankly should have been fired from to 'get their lives back'.

Here are a few of the candidates for the top job at BP-

Mssrs. P & B Chuckle

Mssrs. S Laurel & O Hardy

Mr. B Keaton

All of whom are vastly experienced at royally cocking up almost everything they do and would be very much a like-for-like replacement for the outgoing Hayward. But of course, it's not all male candidates. Similarly qualified are:

Ms. K Woodburn

Ms. A McKenzie

Who are eminently experienced in cleaning up other people's fucking mess. Ooh burn.




And Finally....
The Answer to the puzzler in last week's 'Still Got the News...' was that they were all true. A bit of a trick question you might say, but then the media is pretty much beyond parody these days and enough of the papers already make up their stories *cough, cough* Daily Star *cough* without me adding to the mire of nonsense.

Friday Pictorial the Twenty Third: Birds

People with iPhones (unlike me) will get this... as will, I hope, people without them (like me), but if you like apps and all that malarkey then this will be right up your street...

Friday Pictorial the Twenty First: Fox

Here we are, Twenty First Pictorial Fox, you could say (if you wanted, your choice really). Here's a no doubt sensitive and insightful channel Five documentary to look out for.



Fun Fact: Stripes is only the second ever guest star in a Friday Pictorial. (Alright, so 'fun' might have been a strong word...)

Ooh, before I forget, this is a prologue to a longer sketch by me and Tommy Isaac, so hopefully you'll get to see the full feature sometime in the future.

Friday Pictorial the Twentieth: International Men of Mystery...

Well, we've already discussed my favourite story of the week and here's a FriPic dedicated to that. Join outspoken political commentator Benn Gleck for his take on the scandal.

Media Fakery...

Right, remember when that fan burst into the England dressing room after the lamentable performance against Algeria? Well, as it turns out, the whole thing was likely orchestrated by a journalist from the Sunday Mirror. Cue cries of "surely not?", "how awful" and "actually, now that you mention it, it does make sense and the 'I was looking for the toilet' excuse was a pretty fucking see-through one now, wasn't it...".

32 year old Pavlos Joseph apparently bumbled into the locker room while searching for the facilities. To be honest, the moment I heard this story the alarm bells were ringing. Supposedly he burst into the room full of dejected England players by accident and, rather than continuing his search for the men's room, he proceeded to inform them that their performance was 'woeful and not good enough' (to be fair, he's right about that one) and then 'had a word' with David Beckham. That basically makes the whole sorry experience a more downbeat parody of this already existing parody.

It seemed a classic 'woops, wrong room' *leaves room* *re-enters room* 'actually while I've got you, you're not fit to wear the shirt' *leaves room* kind of situation. The kind of thing that definitely only happens for Sport Relief comic parodies. Joseph, who has clearly been waiting for this kind of exposure to launch his Stavros Flatley tribute act, Pavlos Flatley (an already depressing indictment of modern celebrity), faces the ignominy of a court charge for trespassing and can now add conspiracy to that.

What's perhaps even more unsettling, is that this could signal the dawn of a new type of football hooligan. The kind that takes a bung from the Mirror or the News of the World and goes covert ops instead of the good old days of the Firms kicking the shi... oh, hang on. I'm not entirely sure which of those two is more depressing.

Soon no-one will dare talk to anyone who leaves their bag on the table in a coffee house for fear that they might be some kind of tabloid hack looking to exploit their idiocy. Yup, it's 'hell in a hand basket' alert time again.

I'm not going to say explicitly that we're all going to hell in a hand basket, but we're definitely all going to hell in a hand basket...

Massive Outrageous Headline...

Right this one's a bit of a two hander. Firstly, I will complain about the media. In the pub yesterday I noticed a copy of the Express with the headline 'Romanians Steal Man's House' another notch on the sordid bedpost of intolerance. There was a time when that headline would have been 'Man Steals Diana's House' but now it would seem that the Express has pushed aside its previous catch-all headlines for shiny new immigrant-based ones. A bold move, seeing as the Mail have had this territory pretty well covered for what seems like forever and yet the Express has seemingly snuck in under the radar and got away with it, but why?

Well, one logical explanation is that when the Mail does it, it's a bit like Nick Griffin doing it. Alright he might be a massive c*** but he's apparently forged a legitimate political career out of racial hatred and intolerance. When the Express do it, it's like a baglady wearing a Diana tea-cosy on her head and yelling toothlessly to all and sundry. Another explanation is that regardless of what the Express put as their headlines, all the jokes ever made about the paper will feature Diana headlines (you can check Mock the Week for proof if you like).

But everyone's been having a go at preposterous headlines recently, not just the redtops and tabloids. One of today's more ridiculous stories is in the Telegraph and reads 'Facebook linked to rise in Syphilis'. Again, this is one of those classic bits of sensationalism from the paper that last week published an article about the 'Large Hardon Collider'. Obviously logging on to FB doesn't give you an STI and, let's be honest, there's a good chance that a lot of the members (yes, I'm looking at you, ALL-CAPITALS MAN and n vwl grl...) already have something. The link between Facebook and Syphilis is apparently due to the social networking website making it easier to have casual sex, though I think they'll find that the easiest way to have casual sex is to go out and talk to a real person in real life.

As little as I do actually want to defend the website, it's not really its fault if its users go out and have unprotected sex with a relative stranger. Unless the Telegraph are lobbying for some kind of Facebook Mum App that reminds you to take a condom with you every time you log off, there really isn't much of a story here. I'm fairly certain that most users are aware that if they have unprotected sex with a stranger, it could result in Syphilis, babies and other sexually transmitted diseases...

Right, that's the first part done. Here's the second bit- I've spent much of the last 3 hours trying to remember a word. It's a word for a written law or statement... no, not an edict, written, remember?... It's a funny word, it doesn't sound like it should be what it is... it might be latin?... Anyon- hold the phone, affadavit, that's it! Affadavit.

That is all.

Self-Sex, Lies and Videotape: The Chatroulette Story

Ok, I'll come out and say it: on the face of it, webcam wankery website Chatroulette makes The 120 Days of Sodom by the Marquis de Sade look like a tasteful study of uptight, prudish types. It connects you to a stranger via webcam and allows you to have a conversation, many of which would appear to consist of "Oh my God, stop doing that! Next! Next!" as you frantically scramble for the F9 key to skip yet another masturbating sexual deviant.

I first became aware of this new phenomenon when my Twitter accomplices began mentioning it and I duly sought out some information about this unusual venture. Being me, I searched the Guardian website, which fortunately had a fair few articles and editorials about this craziness. One showcased a film by New Yorker Casey Neistat which takes an amusing look at the facts and figures surrounding Chatroulette. Another by respected columnist Zoe Williams about venturing innocently onto the site and being shocked at the depravity of the average internet user. Needless to say you can only learn so much by reading, so I decided, in true Jon Ronson style to take the plunge and see for myself. Going in alone with chances of being severely mentally scarred, I decided to see what this seedy website would hold for a cynical blogger. I'm basically Donal MacIntyre.

Faced with the now infamous two cam box interface I hesitated for a second, wondering just what awaited me on the other side. I composed myself and clicked 'New Game' (rather disturbing that the site's creator opted to call a conversation a 'game'...) and got ready to face the strangers. Out of a brief straw poll of 10, I encountered 2 wankers (1 more cleverly concealed than the other), 4 midriffs (because faces are yesterday's news), 3 basically normal (ahem) people just looking for a chat and this man:

He certainly wins the award for most entertaining stranger I encountered. I wish more of the Chatrouletters chose to stroke a cat instead of something else. He glanced at his TV occasionally, while keeping a tight grip on the cat. "Hello." He said. "Nice cat." I replied. "Thanks." He glanced at the TV again. There was a pause that seemed to last an eternity and, faced with the unsettling grin of this cat-toting, Bond villian-esque stranger, I nexted.

I have to say that the wankers didn't seem very committed. As soon as they're faced with a man they invariably skip within a nanosecond. The more interesting strangers were the normal guys, the non-sexual deviants: along with Bond villain, I also found Hatman, who just wanted a friendly chat, two Jewish men arguing in their kitchen (sadly I wasn't quick enough with the print-screen on that one) and one girl who was more interested in finding her best side for the webcam than dodging weirdos.

Chatroulette owes a debt of gratitude to last year’s flavour of the month Omegle, which carried the marvelously optimistic slogan ‘talk to strangers!’. Despite being a predecessor of Chatroulette, Omegle has one distinct advantage over its webcam-based competitor – On Omegle you can take people’s word for it that they’re having a wank, you don’t have to see it with your own eyes.

It has provided a huge amount of scope for internet japery and some are very clever and funny indeed. Similarly the greatest riposte I have seen to it has to be this marvellously droll domain name. Naturally some people abuse its powers, but others use it for creating mirth and merriment and that is surely to be admired.

Chatroulette has, as one might imagine, been compared to Russian Roulette (presumably in the sense that even if you survive, you’ll be so traumatized that suicide is still the only option). Opinions about the service vary from the classic "awful, depraved etc." to more mixed feelings. "There is something magical about Chatroulette if you can ignore all the masturbators and the rest," reflected Neistat, who shot a video chronicling his experiences on the site. Pretty big ‘if’ there. Any ‘if’ that’s followed by ‘you can ignore all the masturbators’ probably isn’t worth paying much heed to.

That said, there was something about Bond villain and Hatman, a certain humility to them. They were genuine. They weren't perverts, they were just lonely chaps looking for a little conversation. There is no doubt that it is a scary service to use and in many ways it is far scarier to be sincere and look for someone to have a friendly conversation with than it is to display yourself to a stranger from crotch downwards. I had no problem handling the deviants and masturbators, many didn't have to stomach to help me with my blog, but when faced with someone who was just looking for conversation, I found it harder to chat. When faced with Bond villain I froze after an opening gambit and I regret that. I wish that I had tried harder at a conversation and seen if I could have plumbed the depths of this website and got into the mentality of the normal user, because past the surface of wankers there are sincere, friendly people, half a world away or maybe just down the street, who just want a chat.