Monday, 1 August 2011


I admit, I'm not exactly the Brian Sewell of TV critics. For a start I'm not actually a TV critic in any sense other than being the self appointed TV critic of my own blog, for my own pleasure (and for the pleasure of those lovely few that choose to read). There is some stuff on TV that is so bad it annoys me, but that's mainly when it is unintelligent, or a concept crowbarred out of a play-on-words title. The rest of the time I'm quite tolerant, because I do believe in TV as a medium that can both educate and entertain, and I think there's merit in both. As a person who watches Neighbours avidly, cries most weeks during Glee, and dissects the detail of Eastenders' more prolific cardigan-wearers, I really can't assume that anyone is too fussed for my actual opinion, nor can I assert that my opinion means a single thing. However, here I am, opining regardless, for whatever it's worth. 

So this week, a programme which I do actually think is really good. (So says the girl who likes Neighbours, but stick with me...). Sirens. A programme about a group of people who work for the emergency services... ambulance men, police officers on the beat, and firemen. The nee nors as I like to call them. It is NOT - as my housemate's boyfriend thought - a dodgy chick flick from the 90s starring Hugh Grant and Elle McPherson. Be grateful for that. What it is (in my esteemed opinion) is British dramedy at its best. The characters are likeable. In fact in the case of Kayvan Novak (aka Phonejacker/Facejacker) they are VERY likeable. Cue me and my housemate swooning, nay gurgling with excitement and lust every time he appears on screen. He's big, he's sexy, and in an early episode he was seen wearing nothing but a colander on his wang. If that's not quality programming, I don't know what is. 

My most over used word right now is 'appealing' and that's exactly what Sirens is. The characters feel very real. The kind of people I would be friends with. The kind of people I am friends with, actually. Flawed, yes. Insecure, definitely. Appealing?! Absolutely. Tonight is the sixth and final episode in the series, and even though I'm sad that this new love affair will be over almost before it's begun, I can let it go for the sake of the enjoyment I've derived from watching it (colander-wang aside). As an avid and dedicated fan of ER over the years, I'm delighted that Britain is finally making a medical dramedy with legs. It's nothing like ER, except that it's good, and that's good enough for me. Because as well as being funny, it managed to be thought-provoking and moving in it's own way as well. Not an easy balance to strike. 

Speaking of balance, I shall take a brief moment to talk about myself, as I've been tending to do over the past few weeks. Balance is something I'm struggling with right now. Forget work/life balance - at the moment both of those things are totally off kilter. Work is bad, and in my personal life the imminent upheaval of moving house without knowing where to go is hanging over me like a shadow. But what am I gonna do? Kill myself? Well no. I'm gonna do what I do most days. Have three cups of tea. Read the Daily Mail online, and google 'Kayvan Novak topless'. Yes yes yes, I remember what I said last week about there being more for me. I still think it, and alongside the aforementioned habits that get me through the day, I am also trying to break new ground. Case in point: on Saturday night I met a boy, and instead of being completely backward I told him I'm brilliant, and I meant it, and he laughed, and he asked for my phone number, and we're going out. Then? Today I told my boss I don't know if I want to stay here, but that it's my decision to make. Oooh look at me coming over all Emmeline Pankhurst. I can't imagine that they'll erect a statue in my honour, but if she can inspire me then so be it. After all, it was she that created an organisation dedicated to "deeds, not words". OK, I know - what you're reading now are words, but the deeds are following. In fact the deeds are concurrent. Words AND deeds people, words and deeds. The deeds will be done. Yes indeed. 

Sunday, 17 July 2011

The Glee Project... Life in a quagmire, and light at the end of the tunnel

Now since my last blog a lot has happened. First of all I went to Glastonbury, or as I like to call it, My First Festival. Anyone who has been to Glastonbury, or any festival for that matter, or anyone who has read a newspaper and seen pictures of Glastonbury (this year in particular) will know that it's not exactly a My First Festival kind of place. It's no Usborne Book of Poetry with short stanzas and illustrations. There is no easing in. There is no ease at all. It's hard. In no particular order the challenges include: the mud, then the heat, the toilets, the camping, the bugs, the thousands upon thousands of people all going the same way at once in a quagmire/dust bowl (delete as appropriate). However... I don't want to be down on the experience. I had an amazing time. I laughed so much, I danced a lot, and I wept tears of overwhelmed excitement and love through Beyonce. And I grew - I got rid of a spider on my own by luring it into a tube of Pringles and getting it the hell out of my personal space. Don't worry the spider was fine - they like salt and vinegar. Then, after Glasto, and lessons in spider disposal 101, I went home, showered for an hour, and slept for a day. 

After Glasto I went to see Glee Live (judge not lest ye be judged, reader) and Take That in the same week. Cue more overwhelmedness (not a word, per se, but my feelings transcend grammar and spelling, mkay?) 

All this being overwhelmed is not particularly good for me. It's bittersweet. I love Glee, yet I'm not on the musical stage. Sad. I love Gary Barlow, yet I will never be WITH Gary Barlow. Another fail. I feel empowered by Beyonce, yet I'm still pootling along in my own fairly ineffectual life. Tricky. 

Add to that the stumbling blocks that are currently littering my existence and it's enough to make me feel somewhat deflated, and somewhat at the end of my tether. At a time like this I need tea, toast, and TV - stat. Sad but true. The holy trinity of comfort and reassurance. Where better to start than the cosy shmosy place where era-defining programming meets reality television - The Glee Project. Now I know I have not actually blogged about Glee before, but I really don't think it would be healthy - let it be said that I love Glee. I'm 27 years old and I love it with the same abandon that I loved Kian from Westlife in my teenage years. To be clear, that's a lot. A blog about Glee would be a series of incomprehensible sentences about how much I love Glee/Finn/Sam/Blaine/music/musicals/the musical stage etc etc ad nauseum. There really is no point. Let's skip it. For both of our sakes. 

So to The Glee Project. The premise? Win the chance to be on the next series of Glee. A seven episode story arc. There is no criteria as long as you look like a teenager (that counts me out) - you can be tall, short, fat, thin, ugly, beautiful, whatevs. Wonderful. How very Glee. The programme is put together a bit like an episode of Glee. They sing songs, they dance, they compete. At the end someone goes home (in a moment of musical theatricality - natch). People - I loved it. As with everything in my current life it was bittersweet. I mean it's great to see these people take their shot, but I want to be on the musical stage in case that wasn't really clear, so in some ways it annoyed me.

Anyway... this is all a bit me, me, me isn't it? Stick with me just for a couple of moments longer because the experiences of the last few weeks have led me to something... Ambition. And fear. There are so many things I'm scared of it gets a bit ridiculous. But I'm battling it now. Glastonbury was a massive challenge for a person who normally lives smack dab in the middle of the comfort zone. A small victory maybe, and a personal one only. I'm aware that stalwart festival-goers may look askance as they wade past me with mud up to their eyebrows and smiles as broad as Beyonce's range. They look at me and they sense the misery. They probably think 'lighten up, it's just mud'. But you know what I'm thinking when I look back at those people? You are covered in e coli. And I'm not OK with that. 

However, here's another victory, and this is one for individuality, because I survived it, people. I survived the mud without so much as a runny tummy, and I think they did too. So hooray for us different peeps co existing. What a rush man. 

That said, I know the fear will never leave me, and I know I won't leave the comfort zone. It's too comfortable. I know what I like and I like what I know. I like a clean kitchen, and clean hands. I like pasta. I like a cup of tea or three with a chocolate disgestive. I like the comfort of watching Neighbours on Sky Plus at any time of day or night. I like my friends. I like my family. I like my house. I don't live on the edge, but I hope I don't take up too much room. I'm quite tall and thin after all. 

SO where is ambition in all of this? Well actually, it's come out of all of this, because I'm my own worst enemy, and I've annoyed myself enough. I'm aware of the limits my fears impose on me, but I'm reluctant to confront them. So I'm taking the scenic route to where I want to get to. My mind is malleable. I DO believe what I read in the papers. I read magazine and newspaper articles about achieving what you want to, and I believe them. I fixate event. But what are the majority of these articles really? They're an idea, a pitch, a go-ahead, and a deadline. You know what else they are? Recycled. The next day. What these day long ideas do is highlight my shortcomings and the fact that I'm not on the path I should be on. But what I'm realising is that I don't care about that. I read something else this week that proclaimed: "There is no such thing as destiny. This is excellent news!" And I liked that, so I'm believing that instead. You can recycle it. But I'm keeping that one. Thank you newspapers and magazines for your thoughts, but I'm over you. I've got closure. I've had this feeling for a while now, that in spite of my neuroses, my desperate desire to find The One countered by my inability to commit, and despite my many, many fears - that there's more for me. There. I said it. There is more for me. So I'm off to get it - recycle that. I'll keep you posted...

Sunday, 12 June 2011

...control drift away from me, and some crap TV

I got told off just now, by two of my only friends who know about my blog for not blogging for ages. It's true, I've been slack of late, but in my defence I've been busy. Who isn't busy? The Duke of Edinburgh is bloody busy and he's 90, so it turns out I don't really have a defence. The truth is I use my blog to vent my thoughts about something that is extremely dear to me: TV, telly, or as I like to affectionately call it: the colour box. Telly is an infinite source of joy for me, when it's good so much the better, but I'm engaged even when it's awful. Dating in the Dark - what DOES Sarah Harding think she looks like? Neighbours - jelly belly is back, albeit briefly, and increasingly jelly-like of belly. Brothers and Sisters - it's about to end, and although I'm sad, I think it's about time. All good things and all that. Having said that, when Glee ends I'm not sure I'll cope. It'll be like Will Young coming out all over again: inevitable but unbearable. Can't they just be in high school and sing their troubles away all their lives? It could be like a soap - if it was on three nights a week I'd definitely watch it. In fact, I might never go out. Which presents its own challenges I know.

Recently I've been having the opposite problem. I haven't given my telly the time and attention it deserves. But the truth is, that over the past few weeks I've been so busy I haven't been able to watch a lot of TV, let alone blog or tweet. Instead I've observed Twitter from afar, I've read the blogs of my favourite twiends, but I haven't said hi, I haven't dipped my toe in. Well consider it dipped people, consider it dunked, in fact I'm diving in today. @pleasedonteatjo deserves special mention here, as someone I will probably never meet, but whom I would always like to tweet, and who inspires me with a brutally honest blog written in inimitable style: keep up the good work buddy.

So today I'm casting off the safety net that is talking about television, and I'm going to talk about me. Don't worry, if you're not interested I'll do telly at the end. 

Over the past couple of months mental things have happened: I've become a director of my company, I've watched two of my best friends get married, and in the past few days I've had a minor operation. Not a big deal, but I'm a hypochondriac, so a challenge for me to say the least. See you didn't know I was a hypochondriac did you? You didn't know I had friends, you didn't even know I had a job. I've got all that stuff. Check me out. What I'm lacking right now though, is control. I feel beholden to a lot of people in my life. Shareholders agreements need to be drawn up: I'm not in charge of that. I might be living on my own before long: my fate is in the hands of my housemate and her boyfriend on that front. Am I just supposed to wait and get told what's happening? That doesn't sound like fun, that sounds like a fire drill, and limbo has never been a place that I've resided in with ease. 

SO... what to do? How to regain control? How to take decisive action? Well the answer is that right now I don't know, but I'm open to suggestions. For someone who is loathe to show weakness, this is growth I assure you. I don't know what I'm gonna do yet, but I know I'm gonna do something. For someone with big feet I'm taking baby steps. 

First thing I'm gonna do? Reconnect with an old friend. A friend who is always there, who doesn't play devil's advocate, but who does entertain and educate me daily: old faithful, my colour box. I know I've neglected it of late, but as with eating chocolate, and facebook stalking potential love interests I'll always find the time, so for the sake of the name of this blog let's talk telly if only for a moment. 

Confession: I love Stephen Mulherne. He who presents Britain's Got More Talent. I know. No seriously, I know. But it's like hayfever: seasonal. The crush only lasts for those few weeks that BGT is on, and then it's out of sight out of mind, and sanity reinstates itself, but for those few weeks it reeeeally clouds my judgment. For this year, the worst is over. Phew. 

The Good Wife: Can Will and Alicia pleeeeeease just get it on?? I know it's called The Good Wife, and so it has a certain something to live up to, but for once I'd enjoy it if she'd just succumb and be the naughty, bad, dirty wife I know she wants to be. Just for like a day. 

Children's television. During my post-op recuperation I've watched a bit for the first time in a long time, including:
Friday Download, where a bunch of over achieving teenagers reflect on stuff: music, films, computer games. It's insipid, annoying, and staged. I've watched an entire episode two weeks in a row. Make of that what you will.
Copycats, where theatre school kids pretend to be normal kids, and do a series of challenges with parents dragged along for the ride. The best thing about it are the presenters: Sam and Mark. Another guilty pleasure of mine in the Mulherne mould. Best if we just skim past it. 
Aaaand finally... Spongebob Squarepants. Well what can I say? It's trippier than a general anaesthetic. 

Tuesday, 26 April 2011


Well they’ve gone and changed the format of Masterchef haven’t they? In the adverts people were standing on the cooking benches, which I assume was some attempt for them to be all like ‘Look! This series is different. We’re STANDING on the cooking benches! We’re really serious and that.’ Fine fine fine. All I could think was, ‘They’re standing on the cooking benches they’re going to cook on? Ew. They could have trodden in dog muck and be about to serve up Lobster thermidor with a side of dog turd.’

I digress… It turns out the new series is very similar to the last one, except that this time around John Torrode and Greg Wallace shout even louder than they did previously. I genuinely didn’t think that was possible. They shout at each other when they’re practically nose to nose. One can only imagine that all the shouting has led to irreparable hearing problems over the years, meaning they have to shout ever louder, and it’s a self perpetuating spiral of doom.

My favourite shout of this series HAS to be at the special new stage where the contestants cooked for former Masterchef contestants who are now chefs. They’re not masterchefs particularly, but they are chefs, so I suppose it’ll do, and if they called the programme ‘people who want to be chefs’ it might not have quite the same ring to it. Anyway, the shouting… John Torrode approaches ‘the pass’ (fancy term for where food gets handed to waiter) and bellows ‘WHERE’S MY FOOD?’ I’m surprised he didn’t preface it with ‘FEE-FI-FO-FUM!’ It would have been so much scarier.

That was one of Torrode’s finer solo moments. The highlights of Greg Wallace’s singular efforts are all around him eating. He basically makes love to a fork when it’s in his mouth. Ironically its enough to put you off your food/make you seek out an alternative eating implement to a fork to avoid the visual coming screaming back every time you’re trying to devour a chicken escalope.

Yes they’re fine on their own but it’s as a double act that these two really flourish, and Greg Wallace has come a long way since being described in early series as something about being a flavour and ingredients specialist. Let’s call a spade a spade: the man likes to eat. If it tastes good, so much the better. The chemistry (and shouting) between them is quite something. The other day John Torrode tried something one of the contestants had cooked and said ‘I’ll be interested to hear what Mr Wallace has to say about that’ – you mean apart from ‘nom nom nom.’ ? By this point he had eaten one of every dish being cooked. By my calculation that was twelve dishes. By the end he was barely bothering to chew or swallow, he was just doing pieces to camera with his mouth full. I’m surprised he hadn’t gone foetal in the corner or fallen into a caramel induced coma. But this man is committed to eating. It's where he gets his kicks. Case in point: he tastes a finer dish and cries ‘the dessert comes up and snogs you’. I can only imagine he’s inexperienced but someone should really tell him that that’s not what snogging is. Although to be fair to him maybe in his house it is – he probably lives with an entrecote of beef and is considering an affair with a spear of purple sprouting broccoli. The swine. 

I could go on but I’ve gone on too much already, so I’ll just say this: Tom to win.

Wednesday, 23 March 2011

...Marco Pierre White's ridiculous bow to the cash cow

Yes people, MPW, him of wearing tea towel on head and not being as good as Ramsay on Kitchen Nightmares fame has recently been seen without tea towel on head in adverts on the telly. First it was for Knorr (he must have the k-now-how), where he sat round a table with a load of women and told them all how brilliant weird jellified stock cubes really can be. As a brand ambassador he didn't work for me. I guess people think he's a good cook, but I happen to ASSUME he's a misogynistic, hateful weirdo, mainly because of the way he behaves as a human being and therefore watching him chow down and talk gravy with lots of middle ages mums doesn't convince me of anything at all, other than the fact that he's a douche bag who has totally reneged on the image of himself he put out there in favour of making lots of money. Why are brands giving him work? Tony Tobin may be low profile but he's always got a smile on his face AND he likes chicken that cooks in a bag (Colman's ad). 

So back to MPW...Those Knorr adverts were bad and unconvincing, but now old tea towel head and gone and outdone himself, and is making adverts about turkeys. Not just any old turkeys, but Bernard Matthews turkeys. The most famous turkeys of them all (have written word turkeys too many time, has lost all meaning)

What's wonderful about this advert is ... EVERYTHING! This is not your regular man eats piece of turkey and says 'Mmm what a lovely piece of turkey' advert. Oh no. This is an advert in which the clearly broke MPW sits down at a table, eats turkey, and talks about turkey. Who does he talk about it with? Martin Kemp. Now, I know what you're thinking. Martin Kemp off of Spandau Ballet? Steve off Eastenders? Can't be him, because that's the most random thing ever to have happened. But, dear reader, it's true. MPW and Steve off Eastenders are sitting at a table eating turkey and talking about it. It's so ludicrous I could howl. 

My favourite thing about the advert (and it's hard to pick just one thing) is the campaign it's sitting alongside: 'Marco talks turkey'. Brilliant. Just brilliant. Who thought of this? I need to meet them. I need to understand the inner workings of their tiny mind.

My second favourite thing is the bit where MPW slags off Steve off Eastenders' wife by telling him when turkey is dry it's never the turkey, it's always the cook, to which Steve off Eastenders asks 'are you having a go at my wife?'. Tread carefully MPW, Steve off Eastenders is a double 'ard bastard. If you're not careful you may be faced with a confrontation and will have no alternative but to take a fake sponge ashtray to his head to get him to pipe down. That would be a disaster. 

What really comes through from this advert is MPW's genuine love of turkey (not). Did you know that Marco is a very big fan of turkey, and always has been? Did you know that Marco thinks turkey is incredibly tender, but with great texture, and that he didn't mean to slag off Steve off Eastenders' wife? Well if you watch this advert, you will learn those things about him. Here are a few other things you will learn:
Steve off Eastenders prefers eating in restaurants to cooking at home  
MPW is not a good actor
Steve off Eastenders is not a good actor (you probably already knew that) 
MPW sans tea towel on head still looks like an utter douche. 

Wednesday, 23 February 2011


This was a programme I vowed to watch from the start, because it was an interesting and of-the-moment proposition: a programme that was being produced jointly by the US and the UK, to be broadcast simultaneously to US and UK audiences. I had to watch it. It’s an of-the-moment proposition because the world, as ever, is getting smaller, and programmes are crossing the pond in both directions with increasing frequency. Granted, we Brits have always loved American sitcoms, but the Americans have taken longer to warm to the fact that us Brits have got a GSOH. I think it might have partly been down to the fact that sarcasm and irony passed them by until about 2003 when they finally cottoned on and started watching The Office, then loved it, bought the idea, Americanised it (to the extent of putting the word ‘American’ in the title just so everyone’s really clear – America – yeah!), used a team of writers, and made about 17 series of it, completely bastardising the idea on the way. HOWEVER, the point is that they get us now… sort of.

The premise of Episodes is actually funny precisely because of the example of UK to US bastardisation that occurred with The Office; in Episodes an American network buys the rights to a successful UK sitcom, and then makes it something completely different, so much is lost in translation: hilarity ensues. Or does it? Well… I like Episodes. I think it’s interesting, it has good pace, the acting is (largely) very good, although it is definitely carried by Grieg, Mangan and Le Blanc. However, Episodes is not a ‘sitcom’ in the traditional mould. The laughs do not come thick and fast. There’s no slapstick, there’s not a whole heap of irony either. In fact the majority of the comedy seems to come from stereotyping. The English characters are well spoken, polite, slightly bumbling and superior, the American characters are self obsessed, weight obsessed, shallow, and two faced. When the two collide there are some issues, and when I’m watching it I can’t help thinking about which lines were written to appeal to the American audience, and which bits they’ll laugh at. (I think it’s mainly the bits where the English characters are being patronized).

Anyway, long story short (too late)… here’s my take on it:

Matt Le Blanc. His hair is grey now. It looks good. He plays himself very well. He’s almost impossibly sexy in this. I never saw it with Joey, maybe cos he was such a muppet, but here there’s something reeeeally hot about him in a ‘stop being such a misogynistic bastard by the way I know you have a massive penis’ kind of way. I’m drawn to him. Speaking of his massive penis, him and Beverley got it on – I actually DID NOT see that coming, which annoys me, because I pride myself on seeing things coming.

Speaking of seeing things coming, let’s just hit on something else that I could not let slide. Stephen. Mangan’s. Wanking. Face. It disturbed me. He didn’t look aroused, or excited, nor did he look upset or troubled (as you'd expect), he just looked plain glazed – dead behind the eyes even, and he really didn’t particularly look like he was enjoying himself! It made me wonder… Is this what men look like when they wank? Was he method acting? I need an answer to this one, for real, and also, I hope I never see that.

And whilst we’re on the subject of sex, I have to say that the other major thing that unsettles me about this show is this: All. The. Sex. Never has the phrase ‘no sex please, we’re British’ been so apt. Don’t get me wrong, I like sex as much as the next person, but its surplus to requirements here, and I can’t help feeling the fact that the lead characters keep having sex is the most American thing about this show. It seems to be crow barred in if you ask me, not to mention the fact that whilst Grieg and Mangan are attractive in their own ways, watching them fornicate is not exactly the kitchen scene from Indecent Proposal, and I for one could live without it.

I could go on and on, but I won’t. Overall I liked this programme, I felt the humour was subtle, and understated, (more than I could say for some of the performances) and I definitely wanted to know what happened in the end, which is more than I could say for some sitcoms (My Family anyone? Are they still going?). What I didn't like was Grieg's character being painted as a whiny shrew, which she was, and I didn't warm to her, which annoyed me because I like her and I know I do but I wanted to tell her to shut up a lot in this. Which is a shame...

ANYWAY, with Episodes the Anglo-American Special Relationship has finally come to our screens. It’s a bold and interesting move, and in spite of some teething problems I think it’s got legs... or teeth (mixing metaphors, what of it?). For the sake of television, and in the interest of… interest… I hope they get a second series. If anyone who makes My Family is reading. Please. Please please. Just can it. 

Tuesday, 15 February 2011

…Unrealistic things happen on television

So I know this could be a can of worms - most good TV is about suspending disbelief, and programme makers create a series of unlikely scenarios in order to draw us in. I mean imagine if My Family was based on a real family?! Actually that’s a bad example… a real family would be funnier to watch (and is, in The Family) but then so would a televised rectal exam… which brings me to Embarrassing Bodies – not megalolz funny, but ‘OMG did they just show that on TV?’ amusing, and definitely more interesting than watching Robert Lindsay prat about in a dentist’s coat. ANYTHING IS!

Anyway,  I’m not talking about Reality TV here, obv – with that the clue is in the title – its REAL (is it? Jennifer Lopez seems nice on American Idol, but that’s GOT to be fake. She’s got snippy diva written all over her face - which is from the block).

Ridiculous and unconvincing stuff happens on TV every day, and it makes it good. I love it as much as the next person…

Case in point: in Eastenders Ronnie SWAPPED her dead baby with Kat’s alive baby and no one noticed or has figured it out yet. I thought for sure she was rumbled when the nurse came round and was like ‘Errr, this baby was born with a club foot love, and now its gone’ but instead of becoming suspicious she just shrugged it off. Ummm, this is not Biblical times nursey! Miracles as tangible as that don’t happen every day, and in Walford they happen NEVER. Dr. Legg would never have let that slide.

Then there’s always Neighbours… But where to start, and I covered a lot of the ridiculousness a couple of weeks ago, but for anyone that missed it here’s the headlines:
1. Elastic homes that house dozens of people at once
2. Toadie’s ridiculous weight loss – specifically the fact that no one has mentioned it
3. Everything about Paul Robinson.
I’d like to add a new one - everything about Lynn Scully. She is an utterly baffling entity. For a start she’s next level manic. How she can be so breathy and actually manage to speak and walk without passing out indicates to me that she has a substantial talent that she’s not exploiting. She really should take up the saxophone. I used to play it, and my tiny lung capacity was an early hurdle. She could toot out Baker Street like a pro let me tell you.

However, the soaps are easy fodder. They have to be ridiculous, they’re on daily or almost as much, and storylines about putting the bins out, not being able to find the cat, and whether or not to call the plumber about the water mark on the ceiling would not be particularly compelling viewing.

But, humble reader, this week my major foible has been caused by a programme that is close to my heart: Brothers and Sisters. As soon as I saw the first advert for Brothers and Sisters five years ago I KNEW I was going to love it, and I was right. I loved it -- the cast, the relationships, the snappy dialogue, the cliffhanger storylines -- It was all in there. Now this programme has caused outburts of ‘THAT WOULD NEVER HAPPEN’ as much as the next, and over five years there have been too many to list here. However, in the past two weeks something SO outrageous, so unbelievable and unconvincingly STOOPID has happened that I feel I have to mention it. Here I go: Kitty called a plumber, and the plumber. Is. Fit. That’s right folks, the plumber is good looking, hot, dreamy, whatever you wanna call it. Its next level. And of ALL the unbelievable things that have happened in this programme (we’re talking long lost sisters who aren’t actually sisters who marry their fake brother who never was their brother to name but one storyline) this is the most RIDONCULOUS of all – it would NEVER happen. Anyone who has ever called a plumber, handyman, or tradesman of any description will know that outside of porn films (again, not so concerned with the believable) these men do not show up on your doorstep looking hot, single and ready to mingle. They show up wearing jogging bottoms round their crack, and leave muddy footprints in the bath. With all the stupid and unbelievable stuff that happens on TV, this has annoyed me the most. The baby swap thing I can live with, because none of that would EVER happen, ever, but the thing that annoys me most about this is how close to reality it is - in real life a sink WOULD break (the water mark on the ceiling thing is a current episode in my thrilling life), and a plumber WOULD be called…… but from there reality and the storyline in question follow different trajectories. They've already snogged, and now they're taking things slowly (cos her ex-politico husband died after going into a coma for a year following a car crash involving every member of her family - NORMAL stuff). As ever what's the most annoying thing of all? I want it to happen. I gasped when they kissed. Reader - I rewound for crying out loud! The truth is I really like Kitty. I'm glad her plumber is hot and a feasible relationship prospect. Next week I hope she fucks his brains out.