Telly Ache

When you’re unemployed, simple daily tasks take a lot longer. Breakfast lasts for three courses. A shower becomes Homer’s Odyssey. And daytime television is the procrastinator’s sworn nemesis, because the demoralising truth is nobody has ever achieved greatness by watching four back to back episodes of Come Dine with Me.

I had this epiphany during an episode of Homes Under the Hammer. It’s not even a bad show, but it has this hypnotic, repetitive, anaesthetic appeal that numbs your synapses, mushing your brain into a property pulp, washing over you like some innocuous fart. It’s the television equivalent of staring into a coal fire or a washing machine. It’s just there.

The show fits perfectly into UK TV’s daily dump of daytime discharge. The only reason you would voluntarily sit and watch Homes Under the Hammer is if you were infirmed, being kidnapped, trapped under a coffee table or hopelessly unemployed. There are currently 2.51 million people unemployed in Britain. The ratings must be huge.

I wouldn’t have thought the TV map could change so much in my two and a half year absence from these British Isles, but who could have guessed the current godlike deity status of Gary Barlow – an ex-Take That singer - or the fact a comedian like John Bishop could sell out the O2 Arena. To my ears, he still sounds like a darts player.

Speaking of The X Factor, there now seems to be an Essex version of Cheryl Cole sitting in Cheryl Cole’s seat. I actually thought it was Cheryl Cole for a minute, probably miming. Not that she would do that, of course.

Sardonic Apprentice underling Nick Hewer was an inspired choice for Countdown. He gives the droll impression that the show is constantly distracting him from a horse race at Cheltenham. I like it when he has to interview his guests and forgets to stop talking after he’s asked a question. Out of all the pseudo-celebrities enjoying partial acclaim when I left the country, Nick Hewer’s ascendance to daytime stardom is particularly puzzling. What’s next? Bargain Hunt with Duncan Bannatyne? Loose Women with Ann Widdecombe? Daybreak with Aled Jones? Hold on, that last one appears to have actually happened.

When I left the country condescending bear-baiter Jeremy Kyle was being hauled over the coals for exploiting the vulnerability of his guests. His reward: an American version of his TV show and seemingly 24 hour rotation on ITV2 (now to renamed Irritating TwatVision 2, or something). He has probably been given a pay rise and made Head of Pernicious Programming. Give it a year and he’ll be running for London Mayor.

I always wonder whether anything good comes from these programmes. Do you think the guests leave saying, “Thank you Jeremy for that insightful and at times physical debate. Following the lessons we have learnt today and under your insightful guidance we hope to go on with our lives in a more positive and compassionate manner. Particularly now the DNA test proves the baby is Darren’s. Thanks.”

Noel Edmonds’ new fuller beard is fascinating. With his floral shirts and tumbling locks he looks like a seventies version of Aslan. Deal or No Deal still deserves some credit for making the opening of a box look like a courtroom drama. It has been on nearly every day for seven years now. Seven years, for Christ’s sake. Richard Osman, of Pointless fame (more on that in a minute), said in this article that Deal Or No Deal is not about luck, but rather knowing when to quit. “It is essentially ‘stick or twist’ in the same way as any job or relationship you’ve ever had is,” he writes. “What man, when his mind turns to marriage, hasn't thought: ‘It's a lovely offer, but perhaps I should just open three more boxes?’”

Breakaway is a particularly lumbering, drawn-out quiz show where conceited one-upmanship is rewarded over coalition. Individual contestants can ‘breakaway’ from their team to answer questions on their own and therefore gobble up all the prize money themselves. There is a political and social metaphor in this. Host Nick Hancock is tolerable but a little patronising. “Now are you sure you want to do that?... They were really tough questions weren’t they?”

My favourite daytime quiz show is now BBC1’s Pointless, hosted by the always-affable Alexander Armstrong and the aforementioned Osman. The format is a loose appropriation of Family Fortunes, where contestants find the least likely answers based on the most common responses to audience surveys. So, for example, you probably know that Australia is a country beginning with A, but then a country like Antigua and Barbuda, which also begins with the letter A, may have slipped your mind. Pointless answers are ones that are both correct and so obscure that nobody in the survey thought to mention them.

It’s a quite cynical concept, really, having to second guest the ignorance of the general public. I always wonder where they find the time and the people to question for these surveys. But with so many out of work it’s obvious. You can probably do it by pressing The Red Button. During Homes Under the Hammer, no doubt.

We saw Singin’ in the Rain at the Palace Theatre in London's West End last week and what a jolly thing it was, heightened somewhat by exceptional seats within splashing distance of the stage. The gags are 60 years old but still great, and actress Katherine Kingsley has a ball playing verbally-challenged silent screen diva Lina Lamont, elaborating on Jean Hagen’s screechy drawl with ear-splitting aplomb. Director Jonathan Church gives both Lina and Kathy more stage time than Gene Kelly ever did in the movie. Here they even get their own songs. I never quite bought Kathy’s sudden infatuation with the enigmatic yet egomaniac Don Lockwood. Here she is given pivotal breathing space to assess the merits of dating a megastar with a licentious reputation.

Singin’ in the Rain works because of its celebration of movement (a universal language) and the basic premise celebrating the magic of cinema, something everyone can share. It may be the most damn near perfect film about films ever made, but it was conceived as a comedic throwaway to string together the hits of MGM songwriters Nacio Herb Brown and Arthur Freed. Gene Kelly considered his greatest work to be An American in Paris, filmed the year before. The extended all-dancing Broadway finale which concludes SITR was a formula copied from Kelly’s mammoth ballet sequence at the end of An American in Paris. The film also just about killed the musical as a viable money-spinner in mainstream cinemas, as rock and roll rebels and the rise of independent film all but killed off the studio system and the big budget musicals they championed.

But watch the show, it’s a triumph. However, a word of caution; expect to get a bit wet in the first five rows. The cast use the final 10 minutes for a vengeful, stomping splash-around as the stage is flooded and the audience duck for cover. Some people actually brought umbrellas, which was a nice touch.

Ball or Nothing

England’s first game against the United States was broadcast live here at 4.30am, which certainly didn’t deter associated company from opening a few cans of beer. I’m not sure whether I’m happy to not be so bombarded with all the hysteria of this year’s World Cup, which could probably pass in Bundaberg with all the significance of a school fun run. If previous experience is anything to go by, England seem to overestimate the collective talents of their footballers to such a degree that nothing short of complete disappointment will do. So credit must go to Robert Green for maintaining our track record of goalkeepers with hands like Swiss cheese. He must have seen the Sun headlines flash in front of him before the ball had even trickled over the line. Poor bastard. Let’s put it down to nerves and move on.

Tim Cahill is the big name around here for the superbly titled Socceroos, who received a visit from John Travolta this week to offer some imperative strategic advice ahead of their game tonight with big hitters Germany, their toughest challenge of the group. Cahill is the commercial face of Australian soccer, but Mark Schwarzer and Harry Kewell are prominent too, although the effect of their endorsements have, in my eyes, been very slight. These players were all part of the team’s second round success in 2006, but before then Australia hadn’t qualified for the competition since 1974, and their star players will be past their prime before the next competition in four years time. Despite this, a new book called Soccernomics is claiming that Australia is set to become a huge footballing nation, and that “[a] century from now, Aussie rules might exist only at subsidised folk festivals”. An unlikely thought, although their claim that more youngsters are taking up the sport over rugby could suggest otherwise.

So that’s a thought to chew on, particularly if the Socceroos prove successful at this year’s event, and especially if FIFA accept their ongoing bid to host the 2022 event, which sounds to me like a splendid idea.

So, a bit more detail on where I’m currently living. Bundaberg (or ‘Bundy’ to the locals) is a good 240 miles north of the Queensland state capital, Brisbane, and the first thing you notice is how remarkably flat the landscape is. The best way to view the city is from the Hummock, an inactive volcano turned lookout spot which may only be 96 metres above sea level but still offers a wide enough view of the whole area, from the sea as it brushes the shores of Bargara in the east (a lovely holiday resort with dramatic beachside views and regarded as the starting point of the Great Barrier Reef), to views of the region’s crucial Burnett River, where it is said that pioneering aviator Bert Hinkler flew his aircraft underneath the river’s railway bridge. There is even a bust of Hinkler near the site to celebrate the fact.

Hinkler is one of Bundaberg’s most famous residents, and forgive me for a moment while I bore you with why: Bert may have travelled to England to learn his trade, but his hometown would remain a crucial location for many of his most notably records, eventually settling his light aircraft here after being the first pilot to fly solo from England to Australia in 1928, taking only 15 and a half days to do it (beating the former record by nearly two weeks).

He had a superb mathematical intellect, too, and created technologies during the first world war which would go on to be used in the second. He would also be the first to fly solo across the South Atlantic in 1931 - a remarkable feat, given that for part of the journey he was flying with limited to no visibility. Poor Hinkler’s technical abilities would eventually fail him, however, while attempting to beat a new solo flight record of only 8 days from England to Australia, losing contact while flying over the Tuscan Mountains in 1933. The original landing site of his 1928 journey has now been renamed Hinkler Park in his honour, and you can even visit his Southampton home, which was transported from England to Bundaberg brick by brick and is now a museum on the site of the city’s botanical gardens.

Tall, dense sugar cane fields dominate the surrounding landscape which have thrived in the subtropical temperatures since the first sugar mill opened here in 1882, thus providing the city with global trading potential and a burgeoning economy. Sugar is transported from Bundaberg as well as processed here to create the molasses which is used in the city’s most famous export, Bundaberg Rum, which is available across the world as well as other associated products, but more on this later. In certain areas, when the sugar cane is harvested, huge fields are dramatically set alight to burn any dry leaves and to rid the fields of any damaging infestations, most notably from poisonous snakes, with taipans and brown snakes being the most likely to lurk in the undergrowth.

Farming work in Bundaberg attracts a huge number of backpackers to the area, and more than enough converted hostels to accommodate them. This makes a journey to the supermarkets quite interesting, with communities of Japanese, American and European tourists milling along the aisles. The population here is only 70,000, but that’s still enough to make Bundy within the top 30 most populated cities in the whole of Australia. 26th, to be precise. But the area is large, and residents are free to live in plenty of space, in homes that have become synonymous with the state (called ‘Queenslanders’) which are built on stilts to help cool the inside of the house, especially during the humid summer months. The average yearly temperature in Bundaberg is 26 degrees. July is when it gets really cold here, well, in Queensland terms, with an average low of just under 10 degrees in the winter time.

Given such clear days, I would certainly suggest a trip up to the Hummock at nightfall. Given the flat of the land, the skyline seems to stretch for an unimaginable distance, with the most breathtaking sunsets you’re ever likely to see. A glorious mixture of deep orange splits the burning clouds on one side and is replaced by the first signs of stars from behind you, often simultaneously, and you can almost feel the night creep up on you, like a blanket slowly being lifted. And the stars! Following an evening drive, we step outside and arch our heads for a hypnotising spell under the clear night sky. It takes a few moments for your eyes to adjust to such splendour: not only does the moon seem to glow with even more luminance, but you can clearly see the Milky Way with an almost divine potency (no, seriously), and the most famous constellation of the southern hemisphere, the Southern Cross, which is so symbolically important to the country that it features prominently on the country’s flag.

When describing the sky to you now, the word ‘vast’ doesn’t seem to be a big enough word, but vast it is, and completely spellbinding: with daily magnificence like this, it quickly becomes apparent what people mean when they describe Australia as a truly magical place. I can’t wait to discover more.


AU Tube: Understanding Australian TV
‘Deal or No Deal’ (Channel 7)

I’m convinced that you can tell a lot from a country just by how they approach the concept of ‘Deal or No Deal’. A Dutch creation, lest we forget, but just look at how the Brits interpret it: eccentric plebs add camaraderie and real-life drama to opening random boxes, while Noel ‘Crinkly Bottom’ Edmunds hosts with his hairy faced faux charm. It’s mostly a self-conscious effort to appear high spirited in the face of inevitable, crushing disappointment, and no one does that better than the Brits.

The Australian version takes it’s cues, seemingly, from both 1980s American game shows and the sort of crazy-ass Japanese delirium that would probably have the word ninja in the title. The ker-razy host is Andrew O’Keefe, who makes Noel Edmunds look like some boring parking attendant, as he poses and pouts like a coke-filled, malfunctioning Brian Conley. In attempts to keep the quick-talking, epileptic nature of the show pumping, his banter is short and reactionary. Today it’s Carol’s game, and she’s a full time carer looking after her 86 year old father who wants to save enough money for a trip to Holland. “You’re not taking your Dad with you, then?” O’Keefe asks from his gurning face. “I don’t think he’d make it,” she replies, still trying to maintain the forced frivolity of the setup, but luckily he’s not really listening. “OK then!” he yells.

And then there are the rules, which seem to have been made up as they go along, with crazy bonus games thrown in just to confound the viewer further. There are 26 suitcases, with numerical values from 50c to a maximum of $200,000 (and a car, for some reason); contestants are chosen at random from the audience and play along with their best friend, with the audience members opening the cases. They can play along too by guessing the contents of their own box, and if correct, they win $500. And there’s none of this ‘lets talk to the banker’ chicanery - the offers flash up on screen like the values on a slot machine. So far, so relatively comprehensible.

Then, about halfway through, the screen goes mad and Carol has to take a ‘Megaguess’, where random monetary amounts appear on screen. She says one of them, then everyone in the audience groans, there’s a brief moment of unexplained despair and then play continues, leaving no clues as to what just happened. Then, at the end, they wheel out the ‘Supercase’, which is like the gamble option at the end of ‘Bruce Forsyth’s Play Your Cards Right’, where you can opt to sabotage your overall winnings in favour of eight possible choices. It doesn’t really matter what the player wants to do, though, because O’Keefe bullies them into gambling anyway. Luckily for Carol, it pays off, and she goes home with $30,000.

But I’m yet to mention the ‘Dealettes’, who work in the ‘Dealadrome’ and deliver the 26 suitcases in a get up of identikit blond bobs and blue, sequined dresses. The girls seem to be a prominent feature in just about every other format of the show across the world except Britain, where perhaps the idea of cookie cutter trolley dollys is, I don’t know, a little bit dated, perhaps. And kind of sexist too, actually. All of this happens in less than 30 minutes, by the way, and the whole thing feels like being trapped in an arcade with the fire alarm going off.