Here they are, late again, random and disorganised as ever. Don’t expect balance. Don’t expect fairness. Don’t expect decency. Do expect a wanton rant.
Expectations duly lowered or raised, as the case may be, let us proceed according to tradition by channeling The Small Faces’ Ogden’s Nutgone Flake album narrator, Stanley Unwin…
Are you all sitting comftybold two square on your botties?? Then I’ll begin…
2010 Boomtown Rap Free-to-air TV Awards: The Bogeys
Best Drama: Breaking Bad. Not just the best for 2010, this whacked out series tops any drama I’ve seen on TV. Big call, but I’m makin’ it. Shit, the Coens would be proud to call this their own, as would Hitchcock if he were a contemporary. But these are only vague reference points – this bizarro gem is out on its lonesome. I could chuck superlatives around, but what’s the point? If you missed it, hunt down Series 1-3 on DVD. Series 4 is due for TV release in mid-2011 – bring it on, biatch!
Worst Drama: Can’t think of one…no wait. Underbelly: The Golden Mile will do. Redeemed only by some nice tit and arse.
Most Unbearable Family Fuckville TV series: The Rafters. Christ, it’s raining babies…well, it was until Melissa copped the gong in a car crash. Thank Christ – one less set of ovaries for the screenwriters to implant. Speaking of which – scriptwriters, not ovaries – the scripting has gone from bad to dire. And at least last year you could look forward to some class eye candy in Jessica Marais… but what’s with the sucked in waist? Makes her look like the cartoon babe out of Roger Rabbit. And before the flamers start tapping away with pedestrian rhetorical questions like “why do you keep watching, then?” let me advise that I am an addictive personality whose critical faculties switch off if I watch successive episodes of any series, no matter how trashy. And The Rafters coincides with my dinner time, when a prerequisite of any TV is that it be mindless and demand zero concentration. ‘Kay?
Best TV Ad Campaign of the Year: The ANZ ‘Barbara from Bankworld’ series. The Barbara character taps into communal contempt of banks and bankers, but further, she’s an astute satirical embodiment of the customer service nightmares that we all encounter all too often. Cathartic and funny (and hats off to the actress who plays her).
Worst TV Ad Campaign: Woolworths’ STUPID “You don’t have to be a hippie to be healthy” campaign for their Macro line of organic produce. Firstly, what’s healthy about hippies? Secondly, the copywriting is about as lazy and witless as it gets:
“Hippy” (bearded in pyjama bottoms and vest, addressing straight dick in shirt and tie): Hey flowerchild! You don’t fool me, organic broccoli brother. Come to a lovein on the weekend.
Straight dick: No, I’m married.
Hippy: Let’s play our tambourines – take mine. I’ll play the flute.
I mean, really – why wasn’t the copywriter sent away with a boot up the chute and a brief to start again? Probably because the Creative Director was just as clueless. Come close, GenY kids, and listen carefully. The Barbara from Bankworld character works so well because she’s informed by astute observation. Your ‘hippy’ is a flop because he’s a hazy stereotype of a hazy stereotype. Besides, the organic food movement is no longer some quaint ideal confined to fringe groups – it’s been mainstream quite a while now. Don’t you watch Masterchef? Jamie Oliver? And any number of other celeb cooks who have been banging on about free range and organic for years and infiltrating the consciousness of all the fashionable foodies out there who now make up an annoyingly large sector of the population? And what’s with the vego allusions? Woolworths’ Macro line includes organic meats.
Unfunny, uninformed and untargeted. Well done. Wear your award with deserved shame.
Most Indecipherable TV Ad: The HBF one in which new clients are split in two down the middle, with one half of themselves missing. WTF?
Most Annoying TV Ad: Since the Woolworths hippy ads have already scored an award, I thought I’d spread the love and give this one to AAMI for their “What about me” crapola. Shockingly irritating song to begin with, ratcheted up to unbearable with the shrieking vocals and the repetition. Aaaaaarrrrggghhhh! Stop it! STOP IT!
Reality TV Low of the Year: Four Weddings. What a concept! Four brides critique each others nuptials, awarding a score for dress, ceremony, reception and some other fucking thing I either can’t remember or have repressed. The prize is a luxury honeymoon.
Shit a basement brick. WHO could find this crud remotely interesting? OK, I admit it – I’ve got a thing about marriage, and weddings in particular. The very idea of either fills me with horror. Why? Here’s not the place for hanging my bedraggled psyche out on the washing line of public scrutiny. Suffice it to say, as a trash addict, I didn’t realise I had limits. Four Weddings educated me otherwise.
Best Cooking Show: Annabel Langbein The Free Range Cook. This 40-something Kiwi ex-hippy is a honey, and her style of cooking is just what I’m into. No fuss, unpretentious but truly gorgeous fare using top quality seasonal ingredients from her backyard or local organic suppliers. Sexier (and a whole lot slimmer) than Nigella and without the coquettish affectations, Annabel is also a far more sensible and less indulgent cook – something like Jamie Oliver in her cooking orientation, but a few notches up in style. If I had the bucks, I’d put an offer on her house, which overlooks the beautiful, pristine Lake Wanaka, in NZ’s Southern Alps…especially if she came with it.
Honourable Mention: Poh’s Kitchen. Yeah, she cops a lot of flak, and I wish she’d cut the hyena imitations, but she’s easy on the eye – and has some good tips on Malaysian cuisine. Poh aside, she featured some classy guest cooks (eg: Thai food guru, but camera-hostile David Thompson). Her rapport with French pastry chef Emmanuel Mollois was entertaining for a while…but wore thin.
Hey Poh, some advice. Drop dickhead Andre from next series, awright? Stay way from Ian Parmenter – don’t be fooled by that avuncular huggy huggy stuff…he’s lookin’ for half a chance to jump ya. And for the sake of we harmless perves out in TV land, go back to your low-cut tops.
Best Cooking Travel Show: Rick Stein’s Far Eastern Odyssey. OK, Stein is a bit of a silly old tart, and he’s one of those Poms who emote all the time a la David Attenborough, but at least he’s not an elitist cheffy wanker, and has his food values right (ie: aligned with mine). This was an enthralling series for anyone interested in traditional regional fare in the SE Asian area, with an emphasis on street food. I loved his earlier French Odyssey series on simple rustic cuisine in the Langudoc region, but his Far Eastern Odyssey covered more diverse, more exotic, more exciting territory. I just wish he wasn’t perpetually on the edge of tears.
Runner up: Cheese Slices. Had its name all over the coveted Boomtown Rap Best Cooking Travel Show award, and I know host Will Studd will be fretting, so let me explain. This was a fascinating show on cheese-making throughout the world – to begin with. Truly. But the series seemed endless, and lawd knows how many episodes in, it dawned on me that I knew the cheese-making process like the back of my hand (no nasty obvious Onanistic cracks from my adversaries, thank you). Sure, there were variations, but not enough to maintain interest 553 episodes down the track. An exaggeration? Well sure, but every other fucker speaks in constant hyperbole, so why not me? Anyway, there ya go, Will. Fabbo show, but too much of a good thing makes Rolan curdle.
There’s something else. There’s no polite way to say this. Will Studd looks like a sheep! That’s a bit off-putting. Frightfully shallow of me and unfair – but celebs aren’t real people, so you can say anything you like about them. Baaaa.
Worst Cooking Show: Probably one I won’t watch. On my never-again list: Food Safari (great concept, but I find Maeve O’Meara and Guy Grossi unbearable), BHG (Fast Ed – aaaarrrggghh), anything to do with Ramsay, Nigella, Kylie Kwok …oh, the list goes on. I’ll randomly end it here. What, you want a decision? Aw, OK. James Martin’s Champagne. I managed one episode of this tosser. That was enough.
The Lost In Translation Award: Iron Chef Australia. Didn’t work. Get rid of pompous old Mr Magoo Schofield from the judging panel and have a weekly guest spot for some non-cooking celeb, as per the Japanese prototype. And ditch Denyer. And Neil Perry. Ah fuck, can the show. It’ll never match the weirdo charm of the original.
Most Depressing Cooking Show: Junior Masterchef. Well, don’t you find it depressing that these sawn-off little juniors can cook as well as that? And if not, what about their declared ambitions to be running their own restaurants by the time they’re 18 or whatever. Shouldn’t they be exploring a few options at their tender years? What if Einstein had been on Junior Masterchef? The world may have gained a molecular gastronomy restaurant 10 years down the track that woulda made Heston Blumenthal look like a short order cook at a hamburger joint – but what would we have lost? Huh? Down with the adulteration of childhood. Pun intended.
Celebrity Chef Tosser Of the Year: The competition for this award was just too fierce. How do you pick between Ramsay, Kylie Kwok, James Martin and Fast Ed etc etc…? Well I have, and it’s a draw between bighead Guy Grossi and pony-tailed Mr Creepy Neil Perry.
The BR Movie Awards for 2010
I’m not buying into that Best Film, Best Actor, Best Director crap. Don’t see the sense in comparing apples with oranges. As far as I’m concerned, the only valid way to approach an assessment of the year’s best cinema releases is to assign some different categories and list the worthy contenders in each in no particular order.
Best of the Rest:
Made In Dagenham
Ones I Wished I’d Seen But Didn’t:
Food Inc – This exposé of the appalling threat to the health of the American people resulting from the mass-industrialisation of the food and farming industries and the subsidisation of fast food by the US government, and of the evil empire of tyrannical GM seed giant Monsanto, is terrifying in its implications. While the focus is on the US, you can be sure much of the content is also relevant to Australia. Unfortunately, this vitally important doco was given only limited cinema release, but the DVD is available here. Essential viewing.
Exit Through The Gift Shop (if it qualifies as a doco, which is doubtful)
Gasland – Poorly executed, but an important alert to the potentially environmentally catastrophic results of ‘fracking’ by oil miners.
Despicable Me (the script was wittier, and the story and characterisation were far superior to the spectacularly animated but otherwise overrated Toy Story 3)
The Other Guys
Best Acting Performance:
Colin Firth and Geoffrey Rush in The King’s Speech
Natalie Portman in Black Swan
Jackie Weaver in Animal Kingdom
Most Over-rated Movie of 2010:
What’s this crap doing on all those critics’ ‘Best Picture’ lists? Twas nothing more than a pretentious chase movie. And a very noisy and boring one.
I don’t understand why so many found this angsty rambling relationship drama emotionally kickarse. It left me cold. As for the accolades Michelle Williams is receiving for her performance – WTF? Her cutesy-pie knock-kneed coquettish manner annoyed me, and I found her post-mumble-core ‘realism’ more than a little self-conscious. “This is Michelle Williams doing cinéma vérité and aren’t I good at it?”. Hmmm. More often than not, cinéma vérité ends up feeling contrived, which is, of course, the exact opposite of the intention. This movie, and the acting therein, are cases in point.
The Aussie splatter-flick The Loved Ones sank without trace soon after release. It deserved better! Not my thing, but as splatter goes, this was a genre standout.
The BR Bitchfest Awards for 2010
Cockteaser of the Year: Rob Oakeshott, for keeping the nation in suspense for 20 minutes of ego-bathing as he waffled on before a battery of press cameras and journos before finally announcing he would be supporting Gillard, thus putting Labor into power.
Fuck The Greens Award: Troy Buswell
Troy Hugger Of The Year: Adele Carles
Mincing Political Shitwit of the Year Award: Vying for this are Christopher Pine and Greg
CHunt – but Pine had his drooping mitt waaay in front on the finish line. The embodiment of the private school prefect nerd everyone has always hated, this whining ninny could be the lovechild of Puffy Downer and Bronny Bishop.
The Right Honourable Christopher Pine
Shut The Fuck Up Award: Andrew ‘Twiggy’ Forrest – what makes this jumped up little jerkoff think he should publicly advise the govt on every second policy? And why does the media indulge him? The mining tax, the ETS…oh, hang on…is there a pattern here? Something to do with self-interest?
Snout In The Trough Award: Gina Reinhart, for her effort on the Esplanade urging the proles in the mining industry to stand up against the govt in protest against the mining tax. This is the only time this sow has been moved to public protest – and why?
Could it be anything to do with the tax threatening a few mill of the vast fortune she inherited as a result of daddy Lang Hancock discovering iron ore in WA? Why, Gina was even moved later in the year to expand her financial interests beyond the mining industry to Channel 10, in which she took a 10% stake, following the lead of James Packer and Lachlan Murdoch. Mrs Rinehart’s media investments are believed to be linked to her desire to influence the public debate over what she sees as Australia’s declining competitiveness in the mining industry. She has the country at heart, of course.
Gina rallies her mining minions
Barry Hall ‘Brainsnap’ Award for Spontaneously Erupting Psychiatric Condition Never Before Known to Science: Kirsty Whatsersyphenatedname, whose running to the media with her tale of sexual harassment at DJs landed her with a case of ‘Adjustment Disorder’ (due to intense publicity about the case). Thank heavens she was well compensated.
Police Public Relations Beyond The Call Of Duty Award: The nine WA cops who surrounded an unarmed man at the East Perth watch house and used a Taser on him 13 times even though he wasn’t threatening them.
Shoot the Messenger Award: The Canadian political advisor who called for Julian Assange’s assassination, and all the other politicians who went off frothing at the mouth and flinging around accusations of breaching national security. Since when has the journalistic scoop been a criminal offence? Pillars of democracy like the fucking US and Australia and Sweden are supposed to safeguard free speech, aren’t they – not punish those who exercise it? What is Wikileaks if not an instance of online journalism disseminating a scoop? Those who leaked the information to Wikileaks are the guilty parties here, not Assange. All already been said, but shit – outrage has gotta go somewhere, and this post is where for me.
Neologism Of The Year: Sarah Palin’s “refudiate”. The woman’s a moron or a genius, depending on your IQ and PQ (perversity quotient). And the colour of your neck.
Dope Of The Year:
Queen Mother Award: Sir Elton John
Pop Bimbo Quote of the Year: “So, where’s the Cannes Film Festival being held this year?” – Christina Aguilera
Sports Fashion Crisis of the Year: Venus Williams
Is she or isn’t she? Thank the lawd…she is.
WA Football Sophisticate of the Year: Mal Brown, for his enlightened reminiscences on poor light preventing him from seeing Aboriginal players on the field: “It actually disadvantaged us. We couldn’t pick any of the cannibals.”
Media Sexism and Double Standards Victim Of The Year: Lara Bingle. Poor Fev. All he did was release to the digital domain pics of this Bingle slut protesting against him taking a pic of her showering. Poor Pup. We always knew she was only a gold digger. And a spotlight hugger. We can only hope he soon fully recovers from the trauma this Bingle bitch inflicted on him, poor lad. Actually, the media didn’t go far enough. She’s a ho, a Jezebel, a…a…fucking FEMALE. That’s wot she is. She should be burnt at the stake in Martin Place as a warning to all other bitches who mess with male Aussie sporting figures.
Beat On The Brat Award: St Kilda Football Club for suing the 17yo girl who released nude pics of Riewoldt and Dal Santo on the web and vowing to pursue her for 15 years for damages.
Save The Children Award: St Kilda Football Club, for exercising duty of care by bringing the full force of the law down on the poor wayward girl, forcing her to delete the pics and thus saving her from herself. No longer can she view the private images of the Saints lads’ privates. Unfortunately, the altruism and social responsibility of this marvellous AFL club only extends so far. Those sordid enough to want to view said pics have to go to the enormous bother of doing a 10 second search in Google Images. I was going to post the pics here, but decided against giving readers an involuntary eyeful of these jock dorks. Your choice, then. Here are the links:
The Tiger Woods Slipped Halo Award: Nick Riewoldt
Wee Willie Winkie Award: Nick Dal Santo.
Pink Elephant Of the Year: The one in the room when these Saints boys had their photographic session. Now, let me hasten to add, I’m not suggesting that any of the parties involved are into boy. Not in a million years. Or any of the other Saints players, for that matter. Or any AFL players at all. Or any players from any other ball code. As an outsider, what do I know about male bonding codes in elite sport? It might be thoroughly hetero to frame yer slug on the half-flop with yer hands while a buddy looks on at close range with a condom packet (?) held out from his crotch region and another takes a pic. It might be the height of good hetero fun to pose for the camera lying back in bed with the little man standing to attention (very little in the case of Dal Santo, it has to be said). Very far be it from me to pass judgment. But one can’t help but to wonder – ‘one’, not me – about that pink elephant in the room. Metaphorically and generally speaking only, and precluding any interpretation that might trigger litigious impulses.
Bum Rap Of The Year:
And now, the big one. Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you…
THE FUCK YOU AWARD FOR 2010
I was all set to give this to pram nazis. What is this power-surge that lights up mothers with prams? I mean, what have they done to deserve the privileged status they bestow upon themselves that carries with it an automatic decree that the populace shall part like the Red Sea wheresoever they choose to roam? Pop out a joey? Hardly a remarkable achievement! The soaring population of this little planet is evidence of that.
Worse, their inflated sense of status and privilege endures way past early motherhood. In fact, it appears to be a permanent pathology. Just before Christmas, I was pressed up against the counter at my favourite smallgoods and deli store, which was jam-packed with customers, and a woman behind me with a pram was taking up space as she browsed leisurely through an adjacent cheese display. Along comes an irate-looking 40-something female seeking to move between us, who taps me on the shoulder and tersely asks me to move! “Where?” I asked her, struggling to turn to her from my pinned position. She sighed dramatically and scowled at me, then contorted herself in all sorts of elaborate and extravagant genuflections and manoeuvres to avoid inconveniencing the pram maam, eventually insinuating herself past with a backward glance of loathing – at me. Meanwhile, the pram maam continued her browsing in blissful unawareness and comfort.
But best I not pursue my protests further, lest a nation of pram nazis and their myriad supporters pile their collective wrath and outrage upon my sacrilegious head. For this year, at least, pram nazis will be spared the ignominy of this award, which goes instead to another breed far more deserving.
I speak of those despicable, cowardly primitives who resort to glassing or other acts of violence on an unsuspecting victim who happens to be in their near vicinity coinciding with an anger surge. We all get angry, you fucking Neanderthals, and we all have ‘issues’. Thing is, as adults, we can make a decision to control our base urges to lash out at the nearest unfortunate. And if your choice is to wreck some innocent bystander’s face – or life – because you’re angry about personal shit, you are undeveloped and infantile, malevolently stupid, and not fit to be walking around with the rest of us.
I hate the concept of jail as a deterrent or punishment, and firmly believe that most current inmates should not be there. As a deterrent, incarceration is largely ineffective, and there are surely more constructive punitive measures that could be applied to most miscreants than locking them in a cage. However, crimes of violence resulting in injury or death should be dealt with by removing the perpetrators from civilised society. How else can the community be protected from adult tantrum-throwers who express themselves through violent action directed at an innocent party?
Violence should be confined to cages – UFC or jail. If you’re one of these thugs and you’re at large in the community, may your karma find you before you find another victim. FUCK YOU.
To everyone else, Happy New Year.