Get real people off the TV! (Part II)

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(To be read in conjunction with Part I)

Things we must hear in property programmes.

Our vocabulary about property must be dwindling. We’re stuck with a few repetitive and meaningless phrases which are supposed to conjure some sort of sense of the house. They go like this.

  1. Character property. The ‘muggle-guests’ (non-professionals lacking all the magic and wizardry of the trained) all have this on their list (more about this nebulous list later). To me, that must mean more than 70 years old. Stone built, inhabited by an old fisherman or his ghost. Cobwebs, wood, small windows… But this phrase is thrown about by every house hunter. And what do they do? Choose the ugliest, most characterless house. All uniform red brick and ghastly double glazed windows. I’ve concluded that the guests are talking about themselves. They want bags of character.
  2. Ticks all the boxes. Is there one universal form with a list of requirements that anyone, anywhere can use? I suppose in Europe it would have to include, door, windows, at least one room. So what the hell does ‘ticks all the boxes mean’? I can’t see your list. Your list probably has things like, ‘a house we can afford which looks like it costs three times as much’ or ’a garden that reminds me of Rosings Park’ or ‘this house will make me look like the character I want to be: established, secure, stylish, loved.’ Yes I think that’s it.
  3. The wow factor. What? Is this what we’re reduced to? The word, ‘wow’ to replace any fluent English conversation. With our rich vocabulary and infinite choice of adjectives, the muggle-guests choose ‘wow’. Hyperbole used ridiculously. Ok so it has some outside lighting. Or a few fruit trees. Or a range-style cooker. That’s normally enough. Wow!
  4. Oh come on now. You?! Lifestyle?! They want it to sound like they have hot tub parties with glamourous toned men and women. Or cook up exotic menus for their neighbours every week. Or go hunting or shooting.

What they mean is they go to their humdrum jobs every day in their Sharan. Eat a Galaxy bar and (to compensate) a yoghurt-jam combination for lunch at their desk. Have highlights. Buy microwave lasagne for dinner. Get drunk with their friends at the pub on a Saturday. Then maybe have sex (which will be blurred in future memory). Do some DIY. Have the notion that their memoirs might be interesting to others to read. Start a book. Buy the latest mobile phone. Have the notion that moving house will make them interesting/give them a reason to continue living/be the highlight of their memoirs… Lifestyle.

I won’t go on.

I’ll still watch housey programmes. I like looking at the properties. Unfortunately I have to tolerate the stars of the show (the homes) being ruined by real people.

Masterchef I can still appreciate. There’s very little talking and the ordinary people actually know how to do something: cook.

And don’t get me wrong some presenters are intolerable too. But they’re annoying because they’re probably trying to make a name for themselves.

So I suggest we segregate professionals from real folk please. Let real folk do the watching and leave presenting to the professionals? Thank you.


Get real people off the TV! (Part I)

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A few years ago, I was saying the opposite. “More real people on TV please!” Dozens of house-hunting programmes later with ordinary people competing with sewing/cooking/singing and I’ve changed my mind…

I now see the appeal of people trained to perform.

As one with a compulsive house-hunting programme obsession, I rarely miss a showing. But the Escape to the Country one must top the lot.

Shiny, smooth, friendly, tolerant people faced with deadpan voices, estranged couples, chubby, badly dressed real people who’ve made no effort to smarten up for TV… it’s awful.

They shuffle about trying to sound like they know what they’re talking about and just ape the presenters with their catchphrases and slick comments. (See Part II.)

I’ve seen it all. I worked many years at an estate agent showing these people around houses and flats. They all seemed to think they had to contribute something knowledgeable to the viewing.

“Is the attic boarded?” and “Is this a partition wall?” and “I don’t think we’d fit our king-sized bed in here.”

No dearie. You wouldn’t. This cottage was meant for poor people. The builders didn’t envisage young’uns like you with your home-offices and LinkedIn profiles and annual amassing crap living in a humble worker’s cottage like this in 150 years. They had a fire and some tools maybe.

But these people are now on TV. Commenting on the wallpaper and floor tiles of someone else’s house. Making a mess with cake mixture or zips and Velcro. Get off! Go and do all this in the privacy of your own homes.

I want experts on my TV. Reasonably well-dressed, people who’ve bothered to brush their hair and wear clothes that fit. Telling me things they know and I don’t.

It’s a mistake I hope programme producers realise that the ‘docu-drama’ approach is failing. Real people doing real things, God! I wouldn’t sit in my neighbour’s house for an hour watching them just… live.

Glamour. People who’ve been transformed by the make-up artist. People who can speak… Can we just leave it to the professionals? Leave the rest of us at home on this side of the camera. That’s where we belong.

The experiment’s over. The findings are: it didn’t work.

Greetings cards ideas…

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I think I’ve spotted a gap in the market. With the scope of things we can now celebrate and sympathise over, I wonder why we haven’t seen a much fuller range. My ideas follow…


You’ve wreaked revenge on your sister/ex-best friend/ex-spouse


You’ve lost your common sense. Why else would you buy a Skoda on credit?


You’ve emigrated and left your friends, job, house and children for a life in a strange country with foreign currency, food you know you don’t even like and neighbours who all own guns


For a month or so…

We’re celebrating

You’re finally leaving.



You’ve wreaked revenge on your sister/ex-best friend/ex-spouse


You’ve emigrated and left your friends, job, house and children for a life in a strange country with foreign currency, food you know you don’t even like and neighbours who all own guns


For a month or so…


You’re finally leaving.


You still haven’t managed to conceive this year.


Quite good going for a gunshot wedding…


It’s going to be tough. Third rate grad with a degree in the films of Scooby Doo and a cocky belief that you’ll walk straight into role of right hand man to Steven Spielberg… Good luck


As a third rate grad…


I’ll be nice when Mummy’s not looking to shove your head in the garden fence, steal your pocket money and humiliate you whenever possible


Twenty five years filling me with paranoia, insecurity and doubt, it’s your turn. The first of twenty five cards telling you how much you are to blame for my depression, lack of girlfriend and inability to manage my life. Cheers

Just a thought…

Where’s Bogdan? Why we like the TV meerkats…

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It’s a bit like ‘Where’s Wally?’ Locating something interesting and different in the mire of American-dominated children’s TV. I’m not helping make myself any more popular with them over the sea but I have to speak.

The TV meerkats are currently in my top ten of personalities I’d like to get to know. Their mysterious culture, their serious faces and grave humour make them a serious contenders for personality of the year.

They look after their old and are tender with their young.

Even their broken English, their hobbies and histories are refreshingly captivating. They have philosophy and you get the feeling they’re quietly erudite. Which makes them a highly attractive alternative to… the Americans.

No doubt we get the worst impression of America. The media they export (though I hear they export their best) has a strong cultural message which is foreign to us and the mania for consumption that has escalated here over the last 25 years here is (I think) American.

Pop Girl channel with its endless spool of teen TV programmes (which I’m subjected to every day now) consists almost uniquely of U.S. programmes.

The California-tanned beauties and their fit, virile male friends make tedious watching. They snack on leaves and fruit (hah!) and fight for environmental issues, justice and stand up for the small guy.

Their staccato talk (do they really talk in those nasal, whiny voices?) and tales with morals are written (and acted) to a formula. Are we to take these kids seriously when they promote honesty or loyalty?

And I see the same facial expressions, same body gestures and inflection… (we end up watching the same stories with different actors in them. Someone invariably spits out food or has a food fight; someone will adopt that cocky expression and say, ‘Oh really?’ Someone else will frown-smile and say, ‘Okaaayyyy…’ to denote the weirdness of someone else. Yawn…

Now the meerkats… they’re wholesome and seem beautifully unaware of how to present themselves globally. Blissfully un-photogenic and with no idea of what ‘cool’ is, (“Who’s this cool?”) the entire family is clearly lacking any PR exercises. Unattractive (even baby Oleg isn’t pretty), foreign and with no sense of what we in the west are used to, it goes to show we’re capable of accepting the new and peculiar.

One of the most peculiar characteristics is that (I’ve just learned) meerkats are native to south Africa yet they have strongly eastern European accents… Some dark and interesting evolutionary/ancestral episode no doubt.

They feel like creatures I’d like to have in my close circle of friends. They could teach me new things and help me solve problems in new ways.

They wouldn’t understand our desire for buy-to-let or fast food; you get the feeling they walk five miles to the village for bread and have things like smoked tomatoes and pickled apple for supper (they’re all very trim you’ll notice).

Their TV marketing campaigns would be innocent and plain. The moustached chap with the village hardware store – proud of having secured a TV commercial after having been on the list for 15 years – might advertise his shop’s dinner service by smiling widely at the camera with a slogan like, ‘Buy my jugs and pots – they’re very useful!’

No, I don’t want to adopt a toy or buy a book and I wouldn’t want them to have a series. But credit to the creator of these fully formed and novel personalities.

As a backlash against the eternal flow of US culture (we in the UK now have ads directly imported from the US – no editing for the UK market), with its uniform outpouring of values and moralising, the meerkats remind us of the diversity that lies beyond the States. And the value in that diversity.

(Oh God that last line sounded a lot like preaching and moralising… it’s catching I swear…)

Online shopping: I’m a convert

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The High Street catastrophe is well documented: we’re not shopping outdoors any more. Here’s why (in my mind).

This post comes fresh from a trip to my own High Street. I did things the old-fashioned way today and used my local shops. It was horrible.

These are the things I put up with every single time I shop the traditional way.

I end up putting the shop back together tidily for the incompetent staff. I only have to brush past a rail of T-shirts and they’ll shoulder off their too small hangers and slide to the fluffy floor.

Being considerate and anxious about some fully blurred-foundation-wearing, tarantula eyelashed manager accusing me of vandalism, I hang them all back up. On the right hangers and put them in size order. There, that’s better.

After arranging their shop as it should be, I leave. I daren’t risk dislodging any more clothes. And do I really want to try something on that’s probably been kicked about the shop floor by someone less attentive than me?

That’s the next hurdle: trying stuff on.

Do I really want that jumper/T-shirt enough to venture into a cubicle that smells of someone else’s BO and feet? And might have foot sweat or particles on the floor/mirror? A very easy ‘no’. Even the fact that other people have breathed in and out in that cubicle is enough of a repellent.

And another thing.

In the shop I’m looking at myself with my ‘shopping’ clothes on (smart, coordinated, a bit of make-up even). What if I want to wear those trousers with boots? Or flats? Or sandals? Well as I haven’t got them with me I can’t know if they’ll look OK. Best leave them. Ker-ching. No sale.

But there’s something even worse. Though it seems only to plague charity shops and I shop in these a lot.

What am I talking about? The undiscovered vocal marvel.

Some old geezer singing. Loudly. To some obscure rock song. Or some volunteer with aubergine hair who’s missed her calling as Cher or Tina Turner.

They drown out the real artist on the radio and even wander about the shop singing. You can’t get away from them.

I’m flicking through the skirts rail and suddenly the chap with the remains of his hair combed, greased and smelling of tobacco (my intolerance to fags and clothes that smell of fags has got worse since the ban) hurls out a bar of The Green, Green Grass of Home. God! How did you get there?

What he’s really after is for me to ask, ‘Are you a professional singer? /You’ve got a wonderful voice/aren’t you Tom Jones?’

And then he’ll corner me by the household wares and tell me about his claim to fame bumping into Rod Stewart on the Bakerloo Line once or something insignificant. I’ve got to get out of here.

The plus sides to online shopping far outweigh the benefits of the role of supportive community member in my immediate vicinity.

Bring me my goods in clinical boxes by postmen who are cheerful (mine are) and friendly but who don’t sing and I’ll probably spend a lot more money.

Death of the High Street? It had a good running.

Stupendous failures of mine

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Among other things, Drama School, waitressing, revenge and applying make-up.

Youth is full of plans and dreams. Like many young people I felt capable of anything. I was young, fit and loveable. People would be willing to donate their life to my life. It was obvious. Well, I’m older now…

As a teen I thought I might want to be an actress. Well my brother and sister had succeeded on stage, I shared their blood so obviously I could do what they could.

I didn’t even have modest aspirations. I applied to RADA. Learned a passage from one of Ibsen’s plays. So astoundingly beautiful and talented was I, I didn’t read the whole play. Why should I?

I recited it with a few subtle gestures. Probably in one of those unimaginative dramatic monotones. I was sure their silence was out of awe at my ability.

I didn’t get in.

I had the same rejection letters from LAMDA and worked my way down until even the local Tina Jones (or something) drama school didn’t want me.

My dedication ended there.

I did a term at a Drama college where I was swiftly outshone by other youngsters who were brave, creative and born actors. Some had read Ibsen’s plays.

The disappointment wasn’t because I couldn’t act but because I couldn’t do the thing I thought I could. Ahhh, so lacking in direction…

While living abroad I found I was quite good at working in a bar. Blimey didn’t I look cool carrying that round silver tray filled with drinks. I was hugely impressed.

I managed to get people’s drinks right. Three coffees, one black, one American, one normal. Two Fantas, one bitter Kas (has anyone else come across that? Medicinal and very refreshing.) Two waters, one fizzy, one still. Three wines, one milkshake, one brandy…

I got tips and people were nice to me.

When I moved to working in a restaurant, all I got was yelled at by the owner and sulky looks from the customers.

Bear in mind I was abroad. The customers were English, German, Spanish, French and Italian. One owner was Spanish, the other (the shouter) was Swiss.

I wrote down orders in English (often translated from French or German); it was all I could think of to do.

About the third time I did this, the Swiss man came out of the kitchen with my neat order sheet in his hand, teeth clenched, hissing at me that the kitchen staff didn’t understand English.

“Write it in Spanish. What do you expect them to do? They’re cooks. They don’t have time to find the dictionary and look up your English words!”

So now I had to translate orders told to me in French, German, Spanish, Italian and German into Spanish on the spot and make them legible to the kitchen staff.

Errrm, OK, pork chop = chuleta de cerdo; frites = patatas fritas; jelly = ? Jelly! What’s that in Spanish? Gelatina?

My Swiss shouter would bring out a pig’s trotter in a bowl of thickening liquid. He’d shout at me and force me to take it to their table. Just desserts. Punishment for my imbecile order. The customer would shout at me too. Maybe hit me. No, maybe I can persuade them to have fruit salad.

I’ve never been so blatantly hated before or since.

Back in England I failed at operating a switchboard. I connected callers to wrong extension on a daily, hourly basis.

I didn’t succeed at being a travel agent either. My job was to sell customers the holidays that made the company most money. I wanted to sell them what they wanted. My manager and I had a pep talk, then we had a consultation, a one to one, then I had a warning then I left.

When I was a temp in a solicitor’s office, some suited little upstart mocked me in front of other staff members. I did my job well but she frankly didn’t like me. It’s all yours shorty, you post your own letters. I’ve hidden the stamps and crumpled all the envelopes by the way.

So where am I today?

Well none of the above. Obviously.

I tell people I live off the fat of the land. I manage the family’s estate. I’m a poet’s muse…

My failures were painful at the time. When that young, we really have such energetic aspirations and no experience to support our desires. I thought I really wanted those things.

Some of the blame lies in lack of training, some in just being a young fool with no confidence and a lack of direction.

Bring back military training. I could have done with an officially-sanctioned slap by some uniformed swine. “You’ll never be anything but a second rate person…! Go scrub the mess floor with a toothbrush!” Literally or metaphorically, I seem to do that a lot now anyway.

When the Queen smiles…

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We’re used to seeing a serious Queen. But what is she thinking when she smiles? Or even laughs.

My sense of inferiority tells me she’s scoffing at her humble subjects.

I like her. I don’t know her but I think she must have difficult things to do and duties none of us would take on. So that’s that out of the way.

But… I see her smile and feel awful about myself.

Is she thinking, ‘Hah, you scruffy little people. You’ve done your best but you still look deprived dear.’ Worse, when I see her with other family members, my feeling of being a creepy crawlie increases.

The image that inspired this was in The Evening Standard. The article told us how she was delegating tasks to other, younger family members.

She and Camilla and Charles (why can I use their first names and not hers? More echoes of my peasant roots…) were together seemingly sharing a hilarious joke (us?)

She mocks and laughs and has endless jokes about the lives we lead and our histories.

“My ‘Dad was a king. Top that!”
Hearty laughs.
“Did you know that those people” pointing to us from her balcony “call McDonalds a restaurant?”
Chortle chortle. (I’m with her on that one mind you…)
“Charles… Charlie…” catching her breath in between fits of laughter “I’ve just found out that lady blogger on WordPress has never had a book published. Ever. But” (suffocating on laughter “listen to this. She gives herself the title of writer!”

Collapses in heap on gold-buttoned chair and calls for butler to bring her something with a French name. “Canapés, petit fours, a baguette with jambon et fromage… Don’t mind…”

She reclines and wipes her eyes. She decides that everyone is to speak French for the rest of the day.

Makes her sound like a scornful character that has no understanding of ordinary people. I’m willing to put aside the fact that she got her position through mass murder, trickery and the sheer bossiness of her ancestors. I still like her.

We demote royals to pop snack names like ‘Wills and Kate’: we don’t do that to HRH.

Why? Because we fear being beheaded. Well I do. She is still the Queen.

These are my closing thoughts. Let’s keep our Queen stony faced. Serious, glum even. Let’s not urge her to smile, giggle or laugh. And especially not with other royals. We may think her sulky but the alternative is so much worse.

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