BAFTA

The wife and I made the mistake of watching the BAFTAs last night.

I say mistake because the BAFTAs are a viewing pleasure that is by turns guilt inducing and frustrating.

Guilt inducing because you know this is a horribly cliquey, elitist, uber-lovey event that you really ought to sneer at and boycott. And frustrating because the winners inevitably do not match up to your own personal BAFTA winner’s list that you’ve drawn up completely ad hoc as the names of the shortlisted nominees were being read out.

In my BAFTA award ceremony Miranda Hart, Benedict Cumberbatch, Fresh Meat and Misfits were all winners. But plainly I am out of touch with the official BAFTA judges because they all came away with absolutely nothing. Not a sausage. And I very much would have liked to have given Miranda Hart a sausage.

Best part of the night was Rolf Harris getting some kind of fellowship award. Fellowship of the ring, perhaps? He’d certainly terrify the Orcs of Mordor with his impressive didgeridoo blowing. Worst part of the night was some actor twat (whose name I have intentionally chosen not to remember)  deliberately not reading out the names of the Best International Drama winners because they were Danish and he couldn’t be bothered to learn how to pronounce them. Of course, he didn’t actually say that. He just joked, “ho ho... I’m not even going to attempt to read out these names... ho ho... aren’t I cool?” Actually he didn’t really say that either but something very close to it. How rude. Learn the names of the winners next time, matey. Show some respect. The best part of it was one of the names was “Adam Price”. How difficult is that to pronounce? Obviously Mr Actor had lost considerable dexterity in his tongue after years of bum licking his way up the greasy poles of RADA .

So why do I watch the BAFTAs then, when all I do is sneer and sigh and stamp my feet?

Because I have a dream that one day I will be there, that’s why. One day it will be me getting the top writer’s award like Steven Moffat did last night (well deserved). It’ll be me expressing genuine surprise when I am called up to the stage by Miranda Hart to accept a prestigious BAFTA award because I really, genuinely was not expecting it, so much so that I haven’t even prepared a proper speech or anything but I would like to thank my wife and kids and [reels off a long list of showbiz celeb pals]. And best of all it’ll be me kicking twatty Actor chappie in the pants and telling him next time to get an effing language coach (no pun intended)!

Until then all I can do is sit and watch and sigh and gnash my teeth at all those who are lucky enough to be there right now but squander the opportunity with poorly prepared presentation speeches and crap jokes and smug looks to the camera because they are out on an industry jolly.

Grr.

One day these people will all be my friends and colleagues and I will have to play the game.

But until then I can say what I damn well like about them.

And surely that is as good as any kind of BAFTA award?

Women On The Telly Who You’re Not Meant To Fancy But I Do, Sort Of (Part 1)

1) Monica Galetti.

Anyone who has ever watched Masterchef will know that Monica Galetti is Michel Roux Jr’s senior sous chef and right hand man. Literally. She is like the personal body guard to the godfather of food. This woman spends 90% of her time looking so fierce that she’s more of a serious Sioux chief than a senior sous chef. You mess up that jus or crash that ganache and this woman will have your trembling gonads plucked and par-boiled in a white wine reduction before you can say egg chips and spam. I have seen professionally skilled contestants on Masterchef quail and gnash their teeth when faced with the warrior palate of Monica Galetti. This woman does not pull her punches. This woman knows culinary karate. Offer her a dog’s dinner and she’ll fillet you in the most painful way possible. I suspect that even Michel Roux Jr himself is secretly terrified of earning Monica’s stinging disapprobation. But when a chef gets it right, when a contestant delivers the dog’s bollocks then one word of praise from The Galetti Machete is enough to reduce the hardest, toughest chef into a bubbling soufflé of sheer pleasure.

This woman is undoubtedly high maintenance. She is exacting and demanding and expects perfection every time. That would be enough to kill most men. But what a way to go. Because there is just something about Monica that does the business for me. There is something of the Amazon about her (and I’m not talking about express delivery and better DVD deals than Play.com). She is athletic in her brooding intensity. But I suspect that away from the harsh get-it-right-first-time plate-‘em-up pressure of a 2 Michelin star kitchen Monica is something of a Cadbury’s Flake eating Pre-Raphaelite fairy. Sort of floaty and into water colour painting and tantric yoga. Needlecraft and cushion making. The sort of woman who secretly wants to defer all decisions to a big hairy tattooed brute of a man.

Oh who am I kidding? It would be Monica on top every time with a carving knife against your throat and a garlic press up against your testicles. This woman cooks and, yes, I mean that euphemistically as well as literally.

Chef, I say, chef?! I think my custard has set!

2) Ruth Goodman.

I am, if I’m honest, hard pressed to state why I think Ruth Goodman is quite attractive. But I think she is. Yes, she has a pointy orc nose. Yes, her teeth are not perfect (but neither are mine). Yes, she is so freckly she must have the melanin levels of an entire Mediterranean country. But she has something that makes me go “Hmm” every time I see her. She’s clever. She’s into history and is not averse to squeezing herself into a corset (ah – that might be it) to provide televisual re-enactments of days gone by. She has also got, I suspect, a filthy sense of humour as evidenced by her butter making skills on Victorian Farm Christmas this week when she informed the audience that when butter has been successfully churned the correct term to use is that “the butter has come”. This woman makes butter come! I mean, come on! That’s got to hit the spot of every red blooded male for miles around (well, barring all those that are on Benecol, of course). She then inserted herself up a windmill in the same episode so that she could admire the grinding mechanism. She is plainly insatiable.

To be serious for one moment though, I think the most likeable thing about Ruth Goodman is that she’s honest. She’s on TV a lot but she doesn’t dress herself up or go in for personality fakery. She is what she is and she neither apologizes for it nor forces it down your throat. She’s the woman next door. The woman at the bus stop. Real and vivacious. In a corset and a Victorian bustle. And she makes butter come. Even Monica Galetti can’t do that (though I have no doubt that she can stiffen a soufflé).

3) Miranda Hart

I’m not really sure if Miranda qualifies to be here in the sense that I think she is plainly very fanciable. It doesn’t feel as “out there” or as leftfield to say one finds Miranda Hart attractive as compared to the two lovely ladies above. I think this is simply because Miranda is warm and funny and smoothly spoken and kind and personable... I mean, just what is there not to like?

But a lot of people find her height and stature off-putting. I can appreciate that. After all, she is a majestic giantess of a woman. A colossus with an impressively deep décolletage. Her ideal partner in terms of physique would be The Cerne Abbas Giant. But what hillside would not be improved with an impression of Miranda Hart carved into the side of it? Hell, my own lawn is big enough and I’m pretty good with a hoe - if Miranda fancies a modelling assignment I’m free most weekends. I’ll even leave a few strategically placed dandelions dotted about the place. There may even be room for a vegetable plot. It would double the pleasure of seeing the legumes pushing through the topsoil next summer.

Miranda strikes me as being jolly good company for all occasions. She sounds posh but isn’t at all stuffy. She’s statuesque but delightfully feminine. She’s a comedy extravert and yet also winningly shy and demure. And, Godammit, she just has a very beautiful face and a smile that makes you want to hug her. She’s a gorgeous ‘gel’ and no mistake.

She’s given me a funny bone.

So, over to you guys. Who is your guilty pleasure on TV these days?

5 Celebs I’d Like To Be Best Mates With

As a balance to the searing invective of my last post (as delicious as it was to spew forth) I would like to present a counterpoint. The 5 celebs who would be most welcome to partake of the overflowing kindness of my bosom, come round for tea and meet up for drinkies and meals out on a regular basis.

Number 1: Keeley Hawes.

Yes. I know what you’re thinking. My admiration for this lady is well documented on this ‘ere blog and you’re all wondering how the hell I have the sheer audacity to suggest a platonic relationship with this absolute goddess of a woman. Well, the truth is I’m very happily married to my wife, Karen; Keeley is very happy with her long term partner, fellow actor Matthew Macfadyen, and we’re all 4 of us respectful and moral people. I think we’d all rub along nicely together, out on foursomes to the pub, visits to art galleries and theatres, holidays abroad together or even sharing a caravan in Cleethorpes. A veritable paradigm of platonic perfection. I foresee no sexual tension ever muddying the water until that inevitable point in the evening when we all throw our car keys into the fruit bowl and strip off to our underwear. But really, that is a feature of so many of my relationships I hardly think of it as being in any way out of the ordinary. Which reminds me, I’m planning on having a big blogger’s party at my house at the end of the year – do hope you can all make it; those of you that can drive anyway.

Number 2: Frankie Boyle.

Frankie is dangerous. Frankie is lethal. He’s cutting and cruel. He shows no mercy. He can savage a man with a single sentence and leave his self esteem and credibility in tatters. This is the man who described Gordon Brown as looking like a sad face drawn on a scrotum and Lembit Öpik as resembling a banana with Down’s Syndrome. What an utterly great man to have as your best friend. I know, I know. But isn’t that like being friends with the school bully just so you won’t get bullied, I hear you cry? No, it isn’t. And if you dare to say otherwise I’ll set Frankie onto you. Frankie is a man of rare intelligence and discernment. He does not suffer fools. At all. I imagine he maintains a very small circle of trusted friends and advisors around him. It would take a special person indeed to penetrate the barbed wire and the No Man’s Land of Frankie’s personality. Therefore it would be an honour and a privilege to call this man a best mate; to have him come round to my house and make sneering comments about Michael McIntyre’s latest DVD or just make another gynaecologically revolting joke about Kerry Katona. It would be the highest accolade. And not a single one of you would ever dare to take the piss out of me again in case the wrath of Frankie should ever descend on you. Well sorted.

Number 3: Philip Glenister.

This man was Gene Hunt. That is so significant I shall type it again. This man was Gene Hunt. How cool is that? I mean how cool would it be to have this man drop you off at work in the famed Quattro and have him wave you off with something suitably witty and Gene-esque like “anybody gives you grief, knee ‘em in the knackers, son”. Walk into a pub with this man and I guarantee you will be served first by the landlord and then serviced by the barmaids. Your street cred would be assured for the next thousand years. This man was and is Gene Hunt. And he knows Keeley. We could all go out together in the Quattro and scare the shit out of any minority groups that we happen to pass. Though to be on the receiving end of a choice bit of Gene Hunt Political Uncorrectness would be a badge of honour for any mong, nonce or lowlife scum in the vicinity. Then we could all go back to mine and down a bottle of scotch though I might hide the fruit bowl on this occasion. I mean, you don’t want to get too puffy with Gene. He don’t like it.

Number 4: Professor Brian Cox.

What is not to like about this man? He’s like a big bumbling cuddly kid with the hardwired brain of a nuclear physicist. He’d share his Sherbet Dib Dabs with you whilst explaining the origins of the universe and how to actually use that cheap telescope you bought from Tesco but never figured out how to use. You could ask him anything about Uranus and he’d answer with a straight face. You could ask him about the probability of alien life, the creation of black holes and whether things can only get better and he’d know the answers. You need never lose a pub quiz again. Or Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. And I bet he’d wangle you a free visit to see the Hadron Collider as well. What more could you ask for from a mate? In fact, that is the bench mark by which all friendships should be judged. Have your friends got you in to see the Hadron Collider? No? Well, they’re not your mates then. Dump them.

Number 5: Dr Alice Roberts

It’s been tough to limit this list to 5. Also vying for inclusion into my Friendly Famous 5 was Julia Bradbury (great for hill walking adventures), Miranda Hart (how could anyone not like Miranda Hart?), Helen Mirren (sexy older chick friend – total kudos) and Katie McGrath (my fruit bowl is big enough, believe me) but in the end the number 5 slot had to go to Dr Alice Roberts because she’s got brains, dyes her hair red and swims in the nude. For anyone with a passing interest in archeology or paleontology or any kind of ology that focuses on history and evolution (and believe me my interest in such matters is always passing) then she’d be ideal mate material. She could whisper mitochondrial deoxyribonucleic acid into my ear as often as she liked and I’d never get bored of hearing her say it. Especially if she was doing a few laps around my boys’ blow up paddling pool in the nuddy for good measure. And did I mention her hair? Sometimes she dyes it red. Not sure why that ticks a box with me but it does. A science chick with groovy hair. Every friendship list should have one. And mine does.

So there you have it. My dream good-buddy list. The pals I’d love to have. The ingredients for a perfect dinner party round at mine. Do feel free to join in and play. After all the violence and the bloodshed of the last few days, it’s time to spread a little love. Which celebs would you like to be best mates with and why?

We Need A Hart To Hart

There is a long tradition in this country (in any country in fact that sports a Royal family) to take the p out of them, make snidey comments and satirize their many foibles. It is a healthy tradition and one that should be defended to the hilt regardless of whether you are a Royalist or an anti establishment Royalist hating Emo.

So it was with some dismay that I read that dear Miranda Hart – surely the world’s most likeable comedienne – has flown into some flak for a gag she made on Have I Got News For You last week. I actually watched the show but my recall of the offending joke is a little hazy because, to be honest, it was a pretty innocuous joke. Basically, whilst talking about the well-known and widely accepted racism of Prince Philip, Miranda made the gag that the world should move past making racist jokes and someone ought to tell that Greek twit and his Kraut wife about it.

Now, let’s be honest, it was a pretty obvious joke to make. It’s almost a given. Even me in my secret desire to be a stand-up comedian would have jumped on that kind of feed and responded with a similar line. It is a joke about the racist stereotyping used in racist jokes. I don’t think it was meant to be a racist joke about the Queen per se. Or am I the only one splitting that particular hair?

I should point out at this point that I am not a raving anti monarchist and am quite content with the Royal family’s continued existence in this country’s status quo.

Apparently 5 people complained to the BBC and a few more managed to fart themselves out of their armchairs and put finger to keyboard to offer their cholesterol marinated opinions on various internet forums.

They didn’t get the joke. They didn’t think it was funny. They thought it in poor taste, racist and that the Queen should be mollified with a strap-on wielded by Miranda Hart herself. Actually that last bit is a lie and a bit of a fantasy.

Personally I can’t see what the fuss is about. I don’t think Miranda Hart is racist and I don’t think the joke was racist. It was satirical. In truth the joke wasn’t even that funny – but only because it was so obvious. But it had to be made. It was the cymbal crash after the drum roll. The digestive after the cup of tea – ‘cos a drink is too wet without one.

Poor Miranda. There’s something quite harmless and inoffensive about her – the poor woman must be mystified by all the hoo-ha. I have to say I like Miranda Hart and my family is greatly enjoying her eponymously named sitcom, Miranda. It makes us all laugh including our 9 year old who nearly split an intercostal muscle at this week’s show despite being surely too young to get most of the jokes. She has somehow revived the sitcom ethos of the 70’s, made it cool again and exhumed the much missed ghosts of Frankie Howerd and Eric Morecambe with her asides and to-the-camera gurning.

She is a striking looking lady – easily over 6ft, and solid. A veritable shire horse of a woman. But you know what? Strangely attractive. And in an attempt to subvert a minor tradition of this blog, stick two fingers up at those poker-faced, Hitler-youth loving Royalists who can’t get their malformed senses of humour around a simple joke and strike a blow for big beautiful women everywhere I am going to make her my TV Totty Of The Week.

Miranda, you can dress up as a Nazi and pratt-fall into my lap anytime. I think you’re lovely.