Not being hideously drunk and inappropriate on a Saturday night is so depressing I’ve stopped sending bloody, taunting “I will kill again” letters to The Daily Mail. It's so depressing, that it’s driven me to start watching Saturday night television. Being a new year, I’ll see how long my personal pledge to not frame tramps for murder, or overthrow the Egyptian government goes.
Here are some of my suggestions how to improve the 24 carat bullshit that currently fills our screens and temporarily distracts us from our lazy, self defined prisons of lives on Saturday nights.
Hole in the Wall
Instead of a soft wall moving towards hideously cat-suited celebrity peons, the wall is replaced by The Berlin Wall and they’re forced to run through gaps in it whilst leaping ex-soap star corpses and dodging Allied and Nazi machinegun fire. Anton Dubec quips and pirouettes until he’s worn his feet down to ankle stumps. All to the soundtrack of Rock Me Amadeus and Another One Bites The Dust.
Take Me Out
Borderline retarded girls scrutinise the only two kinds of men that exist:- the lonely desperate that stand no chance of a “date” due to low self esteem and terrible party trick skills; and the narcissistic smug hipster fuckbags that combo a t-shirt with a thin scarf. Anytime the pantheon of preened airheads disapprove on a whim, Roman Empress-like, with one of the male subjects' comments or traits, instead of switching their light out, they get to physically or mentally abuse the man in the spotlight. E.g. by phleghming on their hair, screaming their mum has a fanny that smells like the Auschwitz branch of Greg’s or giving Chinese-burns to their bell ends.
If the man is unsuccessful, host Paddy McGuiness arms the bevy of Barbies and heads a firing squad live in ITV. If one of the harpies approves of her new meat, he gets inducted into the deepest echelons of Essex.
Total Wipeout
Richard 'I-constantly-make-loud-breathing-sounds-before-spouting-my-next-terrible-terrible-line' Hammond is forced to constantly and unrelentingly traverse the comedy Takeshi's Castle style obsacle course until he loses his mind and becomes utterly demented. He's to be continually berated by the menacing drill sargeant from Full Metal Jacket, holding Jeremy Clarkson's head skerwered on a Skoda gear stick. I won't be pleased until the mid life crisis suffering man-child passes into the brink of death and is tormented by walking nightmares from his troubled childhood a la Keifer Sutherland in Flatliners.
It's usually around this time that I stop watching Saturday night TV. I can no longer hear it over the sound of my own whimpering.
