Jubileeve the hype of this knees-up for our Queen?

I felt a painful dichotomy as I watched the Jubilee celebrations, mainly on Sky News.

First, I was proud that that London’s river pageant and the big concert at Buck House were so visually stunning. They provided a powerful showcase for our country that was beamed around the world.

But I also regarded as thoroughly naff the sight of so many adults waving plastic union flags and jumping up and down like excited children. OK, that’s just me. I’m a patriot, but emphatically not a flag-waver.

I thought events on the river proceeded well, and the fact that the Brits didn’t let a bit of cold, rainy weather dampen their spirits was endearing.

I thought the Queen was wise not to sit on the barge’s big red throne as she sailed past all the adoring hoi-polloi. That she and the Duke of Edinburgh stood for the length of the journey added dignity to the proceedings.

And I’m not surprised that the tone of the TV coverage was fawning and banal. It always is for royal events. Sky News covered events better than the BBC, but not much better.

Of course, Sky usually manages to provide better news coverage than the BBC – despite much smaller resources. And the Sky reporters and presenters are much more likeable (perhaps except for Eamonn Holmes) than the grinning ninnies who shovel up politically correct news for the Beeb.

I’m in two minds about the jubilee concert . Yes, it was stunning visually but some of the turns were unappealing – Robbie Williams prancing about the stage like a tit, for instance, and Cliff Richard, looking like mutton dressed as mutton, and doing that embarrassing song which features snatches of the Lord’s Prayer. I love the Lord’s Prayer - but it’s sick and wrong to sample it for a cheesy pop song.

Then there was Paul McCartney, croaking his way through his old hits, just about holding the tunes. Cheryl Cole’s performance, I missed, but I was mightily displeased to see that skanky piece standing right near the Queen on the stage at the end of the gig.

Rob Brydon was funny doing the links, and so was Lee Mack. Lenny Henry wasn’t at all funny (he never is, for my money) and Miranda Hart fell spectacularly flat (it was a big gig, love; you need to rehearse, get your timings right).

It was amusing to see all the stuffed shirts in the royal box trying to dance like “ordinary people”. Think embarrassing dads and uncles at wedding reception discos.

Overall, perhaps it’s only the thinking, cool Brits (such as me!) who will have noticed all the aural and cultural naffness. For most people the jubilee was a chance to have a party and put on a grand show. In that respect, job done!

What mattered was that the celebrations were visually stunning and they went off without a hitch. The Queen, God bless her, has a natural dignity which was allowed to shine through.

London itself was also a star. The city is looking ever more glamorous. I am tempted to move back there.

All the spectacle was captured by TV and gratefully consumed by networks and viewers around the world, which will have boosted our country’s reputation (also good).

And overall it occurs to me that the whole shebang may have encouraged a growing love for the blessed territory we call Britain. At a time when Scottish nationalists are trying to damage the unity of our country, I think the jubilee celebrations will have reminded some Scots of the value of staying in the Great British Family.

Say no to the televised 'Evil Games'

I will support any legal disruption of the London Olympic Games that I hear about – such as the trade union Unite’s recently announced intentions.

But my reasons are nothing to do with the undoubted economic hardships many of us – not just trade unions – are facing.

No. I object because the Olympic Games – with their foul record of corruption, drug abuse, nationalism, physical narcissism, PR whoring and capitalist sponsorship – are evil.

My poem, below, shows how I feel about this issue …

THE EVIL GAMES

‘Citius, Altius, Fortius.’ *
It’s really most unfortunate
when athletic masturbation
reaches its biennial climax
and fools at full-tilt seek
spurious sporting windmills.

Each man and woman
and in-betweeny
wants to be seen here.
It’s what they’re all about –
moving ‘swifter, higher, stronger’
than the next man or woman
or hermaphrodite chancer
or drug-raddled body enhancer.

It’s the arena of small ambition
that reduces the human condition
to physical exhibition.
The phrase ‘disgusting displays’
was tailor-made
for these Olympian days.

Tarnished gold
is the tarts’ grubby target,
above all else,
above all else.
Swifter,
higher,
stronger,
sadder,
more desperate than ever.

Come on! COME on!
Peel of the Lycra suits.
The drugs don’t work.
They just make it worse.

Too late! Too late!
They have to take part.
If they didn’t they’d fall apart -
so poor and incomplete
has been their human formation.

They’re corrupted,
like the Olympics itself,
by being about
winning instead of the
important stuff of life,
which is mainly about losing.

On the podium they stand,
grinning like go-getters,
facile pace-setters.
Some people cheer.
Some wave the bunting
of freedom-crushing states
as athletes are rewarded
with the motherland’s
rancid anthem.

And nothing now can redeem
a movement professing to be noble,
while doing what the ignoble
always do – by crushing the
humanity, humility,
poetry and eloquence
right out of people.

‘Citius, Altius, Fortius’ (Latin for Swifter, Higher, Stronger)
Is the fascistic motto of the Olympics.

Seriously crap – the Brit Awards

Even if I was still a hip young gunslinger, rather than the rancid old fart I’ve become, I’d still say the Brit Awards (ITV1) was seriously crap.

The presenter was James Corden. Why? He is neither comfortable with nor capable of hosting a live TV event. Having said that, British telly has a strong tradition of using inarticulate dorks to front high profile shows. Dermot O’Leary anyone? No, thought not …

And what about the ‘artists’? Well, clearly most women singers long ago realised that pop music has used up all its good melodies. So they’ve settled instead for prancing around in their knickers and pouting at the cameras. To hell with the music!

And Rihanna, after your lumbering raunchfest of an overlong set, don’t bother ringing me, pet. I’m not impressed. What a mess your dancers made with all that paint! It was all so … underwhelming.

How different, and much better, women singers were years ago, when they didn’t dress like sex industry workers, when they could sing really well, and when they had decent songs. Think Dusty Springfield, folks. Class.

Adele, from what little I’ve heard of her stuff, can sing, but her public persona, and her voice when speaking is awful. Seriously, her voice is so common and stoopid-sounding. And that American-style hair ... does she wear it like that for a bet?

Thankfully, Adele wasn’t allowed to say much at the end of the show when she picked up her Best Album award. She was ungraciously cut off by the oaf Corden. Then, as if to confirm her status as being as common as muck, she gave a one-fingered salute to TV execs. They deserved it, but even so as a gesture it lacked charm.

Just before that, George Michael gave an incoherent, mumbling talk. He should have been the one ushered off stage.

Sadly, there was no attempt to censor the sententious Damon Albarn . He was allowed to crap on and on and on in his oxygen-stealing acceptance speech for Blur’s Outstanding Contribution To Music award.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, we had to endure Blur performing, looking way too old and middle class for the role, doing their hits of yesteryear, which I – and anyone with any musical credibility – never liked anyway!

Albarn pranced about like a teenager, wearing what appeared to be Tesco Poohead branded jeans, his voice as strained as a useless teacher struggling to establish control of an unruly classroom.

Almost inevitably, this very white and pretentious band did a song featuring a black gospel-style choir. What a f***ing cliché!

And the nail in the show's coffin was the clip of Louie Spence dancing like a tit. As if the viewer hadn't suffered enough!

This dross was presumably shown around the world, bringing derision to our once admired national culture.

Noel Fielding’s indulgently unfunny show

Well might Channel 4 desperately need street hoardings pasted up everywhere to promote Noel Fielding's Luxury Comedy.

Left to its own devices the show is unlikely to get many viewers because (a) it’s on Channel 4 (now perceived as a distinctly “uncool” station) and (b) it is pretentious art house rubbish.

A psychedelic mess of live action and animation, Mr Fielding’s latest offering makes the classic mistake of believing that startling presentation is a satisfactory substitute for talent. It isn’t, and particularly it is no substitute for quality writing.

Again and again British TV chiefs make the mistake of thinking that telly is mainly a visual medium and that the writing doesn’t really matter as long as you chuck in a few smutty phrases to keep the audience tittering.

Noel Fielding is playing to his strengths with this show – he is striking to look at (if somewhat gender-ambiguous) and he has good eyes.

So you’ll notice he does a lot of acting with his eyes – as do the other people involved. It’s predictable and it’s not clever enough to carry the show.

The result is a less than riveting comedy, and one which has very few of the philosophical overtones that really great comedy has in spades.

Only once did a recent episode make me laugh, when a minor and desperate character pleaded: “I’ve been to college”. Looking back, I’m not sure why I laughed, but I did, so a tiny bit of credit where it is due.

OK, a basic lesson for the clueless wallies who commission network TV comedy in Britain … it’s all about the writing!

Not nearly enough attention is paid to writing in British shows. We could learn a lot from the Americans in this respect. American TV takes writers seriously and invests in great script talent.

As far as animation goes, you can be as surreal and Fancy Dan as you like with it, but if the writing is as pisspoor as it is on this Noel Fielding outing – then it’s not going to have any cultural impact or resonance.

The reason Family Guy – an American cartoon with quite strong British cultural references – is such a monster hit is that the writing is fantastically strong, and so are the voices, aurally. The animation element, by contrast, is really quite basic.

But like I say, the visual on TV isn’t actually that important. What matters is writing of quality, and the great ideas that usually go hand in hand with it.

Gay footballers – love that dare not speak its name

It's hard to make anything stand out media-wise these days – so diverse are all the publishing platforms and digital variations ...

So banal are most people’s takes on popular culture ...

We're all awash with information, and flooded with images too. Constantly we are being invited to download, follow or share things.

Quite frankly, half the time I can’t be arsed.

But there are still some nuggets of quality on TV which deserve praise, and which are profoundly counter-cultural and commanding of our attention.

Last night I watched one such example - Britain’s Gay Footballers on BBC3 (which, incidentally, is by far the best of the digital channels).

The programme tried to get to the truth of why no professional footballer in Britain is ‘out’ publicly as a homosexual. Some are ‘out’ in a restricted way, in that they’ll bring their same sex partners to social functions attended by team-mates, but don't feel they can tell fans or the wider world that they are gay. Or so this programme intimated ...

This quandary is an interesting one. After all, homosexuality is quite rightly nowadays considered not a problem by most decent-minded people. I have some gay friends, and to be honest their sexual orientation is irrelevant to me. I like them because they are good, kind, funny people, as indeed are most of my straight friends.

What really matters in this world, and what's always deserving of respect, regardless of any other factors, is human life in all its glorious diversity.

I appreciated this documentary, which was carried out with graceful determination by Amal Fashanu, niece of footballer Justin Fashanu, who came out publicly in 1990, leading to all sorts of criticism and rifts within the Fashanu family. Tragically Justin hanged himself in 1998.

There was and still is a great deal of evasion about gay sexuality in football, and the programme tackled it in a dignified manner. For that matter, the family rifts about Justin Fashanu were also handled well.

And most impressive perhaps were the comments by the game’s former bad boy, now turned Twitter philosopher, Joey Barton. He told Amal about his own gay uncle, and said: “For a lot of years he was in turmoil and was resenting himself for the fact that he had these feelings.

"I was like, ‘I love you for you – not for the fact that you are straight or bisexual or all different manner of things. I love you because you’re you.’” Quite so.

Barton also slammed “archaic” bosses in the game who are frightened of homosexuality.

Well said, Joey. Hope your comments prick some consciences and do some good. I won’t be holding my breath though.

Well done to Amal Fashanu and all connected with Britain's Gay Footballers. You tackled this subject superbly.

A show trial of Phillip Schofield – now!

If there was any real justice in the world, the people who pollute our living rooms with mainstream TV crap would face a court of law.

Their crimes are grave indeed – having through their relentless output desensitised and made stupid millions of people.

And that’s before we even start to consider the huge and sinful waste of creative resources and energy that is the television industry.

I would personally like to see presenters and producers of moronic offerings such as The Cube and X Factor (ITV1) put on trial for their blatant mass destruction of human brainpower.

Hopefully we could begin with a show trial of Phillip Schofield, the Prince of Blandness. How anyone can bear to watch such rubbish as The Cube is beyond me. I caught some of it last night. Adults in a big perspex cube trying to catch balls – and other such infantile japes. What’s the bloody point?

My viewing last night was restricted to a snatch of the dismal Cube and then most of Harry Hill’s TV Burp, which may have been a repeat. Generally, the Burp has been refreshingly counter-cultural – it’s main point being that 99 per cent of TV output is unbelievably stupid.

Last night’s show has some witty pokes at EastEnders’ Fat Pat and her coming on sexually to some hapless character whose face I vaguely remember from shite sitcoms in the ‘70s. Fat Pat on heat – now that’s what I call frightening.

But Hill’s show was never quite satirical enough about TV – perhaps it was never allowed to be …

Because the TV industry is so heavily committed to self-promotion, and to maintaining the myth that telly is an important, positive cultural force.

Why it's so hard to LIKE the BBC. NB Fergal Keane!

I try very hard to like the BBC – but the people who work for the corporation make that very difficult.

Take the newsreaders and presenters, for example…

From those stiffs on ‘Breakfast’ – Bill Turnbull and Sian Williams – to the dorks who front main BBC1 bulletins such as Kate Silverton; they all seem to have strawberries stuck up their arses.

And don't even get me started on Fergal Keane and his bleeding heart, liberal compassion industery reportage. Aaarrrggh!

I much prefer the more down-to-earth presentation style of Sky News, where the likes of Anna Botting and Stephen Dixon do a great job.

And I still occasionally watch ITV’s News at Ten - though it isn’t what it was in the good old days of Trevor McDonald and Reginald Bosanquet .

Elsewhere on the BBC, the output makes me want to rush to my en-suite vomitarium. I am certainly sick of the smug face of Sue Perkins crapping on about the baking of cakes – as if that was in any way important.

And tonight (5 October 2011) Perkins is to appear on some dull twaddle on BBC2 about “celebrities” walking in the “wild” … in Cornwall. I shan’t be watching.

What else? Well, I think all those tarts (gender neutral usage!) who front cookery shows on all channels should be bludgeoned in their beds.

But, like I say, I do try to like the BBC. I don’t want to be thought of as one of those mad, conservative types who are always spluttering about the BBC’s undoubted obsessions with gay sexuality and multiculturalism.

For the record, I have no problem with gay culture or ethnic minority cultures. I think our national culture is all the richer and more humorous for those elements. I just don’t like being preached at in middlebrow dramas such as Casualty and EastEnders.

I think the BBC is very good indeed at sitcoms. It has always knocked ITV into a cocked hat with those. ITV has only ever made ONE good sitcom –Shelley. The BBC has made loads – from old classics such as Till Death Us Do Part, to recent offerings such as the brilliant Outnumbered.

However, the best comedy show – as opposed to traditional 30-minute sitcom – is Harry Hill’s TV Burp, an ITV offering.

And the two best comedy dramas of contemporary times are also both ITV products – Benidorm and Doc Martin.

At heart, in terms of cultural identity, I'm still an ITV man - tinged perhaps with a Sky News sort of attitude.

Despite my best efforts, I simply can't bring myself to like the BBC. I think there is always an agenda with its people. They are, in the main, Guardian readers.