My stuff and your stuff: I write books, produce music, rant a bit, and in the meantime review things other people have done. With words.
Ellen DeGenerate (she once appeared in a dream and chased me around, making sexual advances, and therefore as a lesbian she’s a degenerate) is bizarre: so extremely adored that there must be something about her. Let's investigate...
Opening the show with some gentle gags and then, oddly, a two-minute segment where some music plays and everyone stands up and she meanders through the audience dancing and miming along to the music, she then sits down and tells some more light gags. Each is met with orgasmic levels of excitement and rapture from the assembled women (and one man).
She announces that her first guest is ‘a plus size model, whatever that means’. It’s means they’re fat, Ellen. Like about 70 per cent of your audience. And you are well aware of what that means. Feigning ignorance of weight issues and the fact that America is almost all obese is not cute. The model explains what a plus size model is. ‘The majority of this room is considered plus size,’ she confirms. She prefers the term ‘curvasexalicious’. Then she admits that she’s not a ‘promoter’ of anorexia or obesity. Damn, girl. Really? Good on you. Go girl!
Now I know this programming isn’t aimed at me, but I’d imagine it’s not aimed at intelligent women either. It’s patronising, car-crash TV that doubles as self-help for simpletons. Every joke, even minor quip, that Ellen makes is met with the kind of applause and joviality one might expect at the close of a world war.
Gwen Stefani arrives on stage and it’s as if Jesus himself has returned to take us all to Heaven. They’re in rapture – or the menopause. Ellen and Gwen say they love each other. They talk for a bit and then remind each other, and everyone else, that they love each other. ‘You’re so good at your job,’ Gwen says.
I’ve often thought I’m pretty good at my job, but getting a few hundred women together to clap their tits off on my behalf seems unlikely.
A couple of women are invited to participate in a game on the stage with Ellen and the squeals of delight remind me of the sound of wasps burning. One of them wins a 55-inch TV and the applause is deafening. Then Gwen mimes along to one of her new songs.
Six minutes of shit. Inexplicably real. Women screaming while another moves about.
Meanwhile, in the UK we get Loose Women, another lunchtime laugh-a-thon that seems targeted at somewhat older, ‘beyond the change’ women. As in well beyond it. Over the hill and then the next hill too. So far past the change that they don't remember having it.
The presenters here are nowhere near as cool as Ellen DeGenerate and some of them even appear to be ‘promoters’ of obesity, judging by their own barely concealed obesity. But the UK is much more forgiving of the fat and ugly and indeed, none of them has the balls to pretend not to know what a fat person is because they're bloody everywhere. It’s what’s inside that counts, even if that’s just pounds and pounds of unnecessary weight. In any case, Loose Women is one of those shows that breaks up its inane chatter with competitions offering huge sums of money and holidays-of-a-lifetime and all you have to do is send a text message. Perhaps they should call it Condescending Women.
Still, there’s some other stuff going on: the women discuss the issues of the day and get the occasional celeb guest but that’s a bit weird because those Loose Women are all celebs of a sort anyway. Celebs talking to celebs. What could be more interesting? And boy are these women loose. Possibly. Unfortunately there’s no graphic sexual element to the show so we’re left to guess which ones go like the clappers and which ‘just lie there’. Or perhaps it means they’re loose ‘down there’. It’s impossible to know because I’m a man.
By the way, Gwen Stefani’s new stuff is shit.
Five women with no discernible talent suffer a public mental breakdown.