Lee Nelson's Well Good Show

Sometimes it's difficult to tell whether the show you're watching is awful or not. Lee Nelson's Well Good Show is not one of these shows. It is 24 carat bullshit, up there with Coming of Age and other such pathetic 'comic' offerings served up by BBC3. For those of you lucky enough not to have seen it I'll briefly detail the content now.

After a gaudy opening credits sequence in which Lee Nelson (created and portrayed by stand up comic Simon Brodkin) struts around like a cock on legs, Lee then greets his live studio audience, fist bumping, kissing, mocking and of course groping them until he decides it's time to get on with his 'qualiteeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!' show. He introduces his friend Omelette, a man who couldn't look more like Humpty Dumpty if he tried. The cameras occasionally cut to shots of him throughout the show, laughing like a hyena whilst stuffing his face like a coronary depended on it.

The show is a strange mix of live interaction and filmed sketches, the live sections include games such as 'Taken from Behind' and 'How many people have they banged?' and yes, they're just as entertaining as they sound. The sketches are just as upsetting, one section 'Dr Bob' follows the life of a zany doctor (for zany read racially stereotyped) and the patients in his care. It's the type of sketch that makes Little Britain look funny and original. So that's an achievement in itself.

The biggest issue that struck me was that the audience shouldn't be a wide cross section of society as it appears to be. It should only consist of it's target audience, dribbling, gurgling lumps of decaying humanity, willing to watch any old crap because they can't even attempt to change the channel as it may snuff out that last dwindling spark of individuality secreted away inside the remnants of their brain, incidentally the exact same target audience that The Jeremy Kyle Show goes for.

Barbers

Today I did something I haven't done in a few months, I took a leisurely stroll down town to get a hair cut. I usually avoid it like the plague, however the length of my hair was so absurd I kept jolting my head to keep it out of my eyeline. Essentially I looked like cousin It from the Addams family...with epilepsy. So I took the plunge and went down, after waiting for an eternity for the previous customer to stop talking about the merits of various golf and country clubs (apparently Springmoor Club now welcomes black people, so that's only about 60 years late), it was finally my moment.

As soon as I sat in the chair I knew I'd made a mistake, his first question to me was 'So, who do you reckon is gonna win?' The World Cup is something which I have little to no interest in, in fact I'd be happy if no one won, and everyone who took part got one of those packs of mini Haribo, you know, the ones that cost 10p. So here I was, held captive by a scissor wielding maniac being interrogated about the possible outcome of some kind of sporting competition that he probably held in higher regard than any god he may have. Needless to say, I wasn't prepared. So I improvised, I thought of the best answer I could and out it tumbled 'England have got a chance if they pull their socks up'. The barber laughed. He laughed hard, for a full 30 seconds he laughed, like a murderer who really enjoys doing a murder. He then stopped very abruptly, pondered for a second and replied with 'Yes'. 'Yes' is all he said. He proceeded in snipping and hacking at my hair until I looked like a dog that's lost some fur all over. He then held up a mirror and asked what I thought. As I was scared of any further Gestapo-style questioning I said it was fine, promptly paid (£8.50! Fucking hell, don't they know there's a recession on?) and left the shop.

Truth is, my hair looked dreadful and I bet that little shit knew it, on returning home I picked up a pair of scissors and proceeded to chop away at the back blindly until it felt more acceptable and until my neck started bleeding. All this because of the World Cup, what an appalling way to spend a lunchtime. I hate this.

Stavros Flatley.

I'm scared. Very scared. I just signed into facebook, only to be greeted with a suggestion. Apparently 16 of my friends 'like' Stavros Flatley, thus qualifying me as a potential 'liker'. But I won't like them, I don't like them. I didn't think anyone actually liked Stavros Flatley, I thought they were just around and people were aware of them, a bit like lamp-posts or meningitis. Nobody likes Meningitis.

The one unique aspect of Stavros Flatley is that they are Cypriot. That's it. Anyone can fucking river dance, even Heather Mills can river dance. So this tubby twosome have got the river dancing Cypriot market all to themselves, but is it even worth having that? Who wants to watch that? It's not a great spectator sport, it probably falls somewhere between cricket and flea fights (effectively cock-fighting, but with smaller chickens). Stavros Flatley have now carved themselves a nice little career out of this, people queue up to buy tickets for their shows. Has society really fallen to these depths? What happened to theatre, art, opera, TV? Are we seriously living in a country where watching fat blokes dance is the best entertainment we can muster? I hate this world sometimes, it's moments like this that set me off. I become painfully aware of the drooling idiot hole we've collectively dug ourselves, we're now standing right on the edge, precariously balanced in between insanity and eternal damnation. I'd choose Hell every time, mind you, Stavros Flatley are probably touring there in November.