Hold on to your hats, folks, the countdown has begun. Episode one, which I saw half of, involved introductions to the cast of FAT TEENS, all of whom stood in their undies and showed off their stretchmarks, interspersed with shots of them gobbling down crisps and sweets. When they got to the jungle, all manner of chaos ensued. This lack of comprehension centred around why he refused to watch a pig being slaughtered resulted in all the white trash, crisps-for-dinner, future scumbags haranguing the poor little sod in the dark, in the middle of nowhere, as the camera crew filmed on without judgement.
IT'S KIND OF disorientating saying goodbye to a ball of shocking pink Andalusian sun, as it rolls to sleep between the black mountains of the Alpujarras and the Sierra Nevada, only to be hurled on to a drenched Dublin airport runway, before wading along the M50, carrying the only available taxi in the city on one's sunburnt shoulders. But that's what you get for having the temerity to holiday in a country where you can put your togs on without getting frostbite. There was a mild temptation to sit up all night and tune into the Olympics, if only to witness the oarsmen sweat, but with computer-generated pyrotechnics standing in for fireworks and a tuneful, over-toothy little girl being shunted aside in favour of a miniature mimetic ponytailed diva thus establishing the level of good clean sportsmanship we can expect at the Games , the spectacle seemed just too tricksy and hysterical for my post-holiday mood. Like I'm going to hit the TV3 button in the hope of catching some fleshy, phlegmatic teenagers rolling around on their rattan mats in the Borneo jungle, squashing the frogs and paralysing the mozzies? What, you think another hit of fat porn is gonna wean me back to the schedules? Don't be ridiculous. I've long felt that the best thing to do with a bunch of lonely, inert teens, who could make wigwams out of their elbow flesh, was to have them dehydrate in the Borneo jungle, vomit up a couple of hairy grubs, ignite their premature gallstones and have them rant at each other about their bowel habits.
The battle will begin to become the Last Man Standing
Irish Times columnist Michael Parsons has a talent for hackle-raising. He then encouraged readers to look for their art in a local DIY shop. What's next, Parsons asked. Perhaps a local version of Frow's Designer Vaginas.
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