Two thousand and tense


There is an air of desperation about the blinking-newborn days of this box-fresh decade. Is it just me or is the media a little (to use a Christmas cracker punchline) tense?

I have a few ideas of my own hypothesising why this great funk has swept over the nation like so many cold fronts sweeping in from Scandinavia.

One idea, or maybe it is just me having a supercilious attitude towards them, are all these half-arsed, ostentatious gestures of martyrdom, commonly referred to as ‘resolutions’.

The media is having its annual buffet of January clichés and the Nolans, Davina McCall and Jesse Wallace have predictably risen to the bait and are already rubbing their hands together with glee knowing their life-altering offerings to the public will coax the dregs of leaky overdrafts into their sweaty, Lycra pockets. You know the sorts that will be taken in. Bleating office-types who confess to getting up early for the Next sale at 5am on Boxing Day because they have such dull lives they have to manifest a crazy story out of thin air to recite to the rest of the coop by coming up with pap like ‘giving up alcohol during the week except when I really need it’, and ‘crisps but not ready salted’ etc. You can smell the desperation from the other side of the doors of Bannatyne’s – so many people desperate to walk at a leisurely pace on a treadmill and then go for a slap-up curry because they’ve earned it, haven’t they?

The need for self improvement, the need to make a special effort this year. For those few who succeed, I applaud you, but you are merely a squeak of a minority.

Maybe it is the parade of the freaks marching, or rather gushing, their hungry bodies into the terminal Big Brother House last night. I am going to try to stop myself using the oft misrepresented word, celebrity. I did not watch it, I was on Twitter whinging about something and the world started gasping in only the way Twitter can gasp. Remember, like when we all watched Question Time and typed ‘wanker’ each time the cameraman panned over one guest in particular who needn’t be referenced by name.

Mention of little-knowns like Lady Sovereign whose adorable playground rap music made her a minor ‘somebody’ and then, years later as her star was bobbing in the great crotch-warmed paddling pool of mediocrity, she deserts a gig organised (or at least starring) the Holy Roman Emperor of Gossip, Perez Hilton (albeit, TMZ beat him to the punch last year on the deaths of two fairly major celebrities). Other backwashes include Ronnie Wood’s ex-child love slave, a glamour model, a Baldwin, a woman who needs a hairbrush really badly, has never eaten solids and is somehow acclaimed for making lots of money out of the sex trade, and inexplicably Vinnie Jones.

Now if 2010 hadn’t begun to depress me and urge me to clamber about the dustbins in search of a wine bottle to sniff, then the front page splash of many newspapers this morning was just the ticket. No, it was not the football.

The election thumb war has begun, only there is a third man who isn’t involved in the struggle and is probably drinking the other two’s beers while they are distracted for a moment. With only months left before the big day that will decide which prefects will get to sit on top table, harbingers are already lamenting our hung parliament. Not only has the campaigning begun and the breakfast television rotation been stepped up, but the all-boys debating soc is going to be televised on the BBC, ITV and Sky, with Channel 4 reserved for the talking-head retrospectives under such headings as Top 50 Labour Unkept Promises and 50 Funniest Expense Claims.

It is almost as if Christmas’s annual skulk back into its dormant state like a glittering, bloated tortoise, has spooked us like trapped flies in the screen doors reminded of the fact that pay day is another four weeks away and David Tennant is no longer Doctor Who.

On that note, I am guilty of beginning my first blog of the decade in earnest motored by desperation myself. Where’s that wine bottle I put out to recycle yesterday? I need to block out the tension with some Doctor Who on iPlayer where I can’t be convinced in my nerved state to buy Coleen Nolan: Let’s Get Physical in the ad breaks for CBB. The C is for something else this year apparently.


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