Dangling On A Thread - The Execution of Gary Glitter.

Last night's Channel 4 docudrama, "The Execution of Gary Glitter", has certainly divided opinion. A quick Google search reveals many who think it is pro- or anti- death penalty, and many others who claim it soberly provides us with both sides of the argument.* I'd argue, though, that it was less about the debate and more about the people who argue over it.

I shan't bore you too much with the details... Real life rock star/nonce Gary Glitter (nee Paul Gadd) is tried for child rape committed in South East Asia, but the twist is that this is in an alternate timeline where the UK has reintroduced hanging for murder and child abuse... (And presumably crimes committed in other countries.) After a vulgar trial and an intentionally short 30-day wait, he then goes to the gallows... And that's it.

But what stands out, as said, are the characters. None of them are savoury. Glitter is arrogant and stupid, his paedophilia (if not his conviction for rape) obvious in terms of his delusional, self-pitying behaviour. True, the real Glitter would probably flounce to the gallows like a latter-day Jack Shepherd, eager for one last bout of attention whoring, if - that is - they really ever did get to hang him. But there's little to engage us with the pig-headed sobbing wretch we are presented with here, even though what is most disturbing about the real Gadd was how easily he won the public over before he was exposed, and still probably could if these events were real.

The rest of the cast is not likeable either, again deliberately. Real life Journos Gary Bushell and Miranda Sawyer send up their respective grubby rabble rousing and lazy broadsheet vapidity with the same glee that drove Davina McCall to be turned into a zombie in Dead Set. Whereas, right wing politician Ann Widdecombe, media hound that she is, doesn't seem to be in on the joke. But it's the solipsistic barristers, pompous judges, dubious witnesses, the jury that tries Gadd not just for rape but what his popular image has come to represent, the whining and mewling and ultimately hypocritical antis, the hysterical and bloodthirsty bully-boy pros and of course a public that seems hell-bent on turning the first execution on British soil in decades into a circus and freakshow, that stand out as monsters. Not the child-abusing kind, mind you, but the kind of monster that finds vicarious delight through the horror of child abuse and feeds off the hate it engenders or which derives a perverse thrill in shedding tears for a pervert. The drama makes one point clear: the society that hangs Gary Glitter is in its own way every bit as depraved and fucked up.

Not all the characters are unlikeable however. The American death row chaplain, flown over to administer to Glitter's final 30 days, is sympathetic and kind, and perhaps the only truly moral figure in the show due to his compassion and honest intentions. While the hangman himself is an interesting figure - impartial and professional, without agenda and motivated only by duty. He stands in stark contrast to the howling mob outside and the shrill, sanctimonious home secretary he ultimately takes order from, who may either be an insincere hack playing to the mob or who is genuinely intoxicated by the fumes of her hellfire sermons, or perhaps a mixture of both.

So far, so good. But ultimately, "The Execution of Gary Glitter" is undermined by its lack of real merit. Whilst the writers may argue that they are simply trying to engender debate, the faint sleaziness of the premise rather does in any claims of serious docudrama making. What one is left with as the trap is pulled and Gadd finally swings is not a sense of outrage or elation, but a cold, bleak and dirty emptiness, like staring into a pit of total despair and degradation for 90 minutes. Apart from lazily fitting into a British tradition of overwrought pessimism-for-pessimism's-sake in drama, literature and media, the show also chickens out by putting Gadd's neck on the line rather than its own. For in the end what really stands out is the script's own cowardice, its own unwillingness to pick a side and stand up for it, come what may.



* And lots of other people who think it is lurid, exploitative trash.

Horribly Biased Thoughts On Manga And Anime.

A web forum I occasionally frequent had a recent thread which roared - 'Modern Anime Is Cobblers!' Anime is, for those with full time jobs and sex lives, Japanese animation in all its lurid and varied forms, alongside its 2D first cousin, Manga, or Japanese comics. I would explain more, but I have a sneaking suspicion you can all use Google and Wikipedia.

But getting back to that forum discussion, what did I add to the debate? This: Most anime is a load of crap. Do you like unoriginal, regurgitated ideas mated with worn-out visual cliches, casual mysoginy, convoluted scripts that would make an autistic blush and weak storylines dragged out over too many episodes? Then Anime/Manga's your scene, man. Just make sure you don't get done for noncing and keep that Deedlit costume well pressed and dry cleaned.

That's not to say that there isn't good anime or manga. There is, and that's me speaking as a Lupin III/Hideshi Hino fan. Not all Studio Ghibli is as good as claimed (Princess Monomoke is po-faced, humourless, needlessly complicated and convoluted while Earthsea should be lead to the bottom of the garden and shot), but there is some seriously good shit coming out of Miyazaki's magic workshop too. When it works, the output of the Totoro mob is on par with the Pixar juggernaut - it entertains and dazzles in equal measure.

But perhaps that's the point: I like Devilman: The Birth and Space Adventure Cobra and Urusei Yatsura simply because they're fun and have good, strong stories. Their Japaneseness has never been as important as whether they are any good. But then for the Otaku and the blasted mutant wasteland that is 4Chan, all those cliches, tropes and inaccessible signifiers are precisely the point - storytelling is and has always been secondary to the anal obsessiveness and seperateness that anime instills in its most driven fans. Others might, however, prefer to be actually entertained.

A Morbid Sweating Lust For Clive James.

While it's fashionable to take the piss out of Australia (Lovecraftian wildlife, Skippy actually being a fraud, Vegemite giving you women's breasts etc.), it's easy to forget that this is where Clive James also came from.

Fortunately, Clive himself has been reminding us why he has been so kind as to doss on the UK's collective mind-sofa since 1962 by reading extracts from his new autobiography, The Blaze of Obscurity on BBC Radio 4 (last episode is tomorrow). It covers his career in TV, but in many ways says more about him than his job.

Here he demonstrates all the kindness, wisdom and sharp observation that hides under the louche, almost complacent drawl. But also, the inherent oddness of being able to meet mega stars and Hugh Hefner, NFL man-gods and politicians, while remaining detached and true enough to avoid the (nowadays) inevitable star-fucking drivel of today's 'sleb' culture. It is, after all, one thing to be able to interview Tammy Faye Bakker, but it takes someone of James' honesty and independence to recognise her humanity, for all the shit hurled at her during her life.

And that's the point - anyone can show clips of Japanese men being forced to eat worms in a weird gameshow. Yet James stands out because you can tell he's not pretending to enjoy it at all or side entirely with a snearing audience. There's a clear hint of skepticism and cynicism in his voice and expressions, but not about the content so much as the act of watching it. The joke's on us messed up voyeurs, and Clive James is the first to admit it.

The Withered Future.

The big world changing innovation of 1989 might surprise you. It was in fact the humble Game Boy. As a piece of consumer electronics, it was, as we know, a big hit with the kids. But it also did something unusual. Rather than develop new technology, it reused what was already there.

After all, the GB’s black-and-white, Z80 processor technology was not cutting edge. In fact it was almost a decade old by this time. Yet it was not what the Gameboy could do that was unique, it was how it did it. The Gameboy was smaller and more battery efficient than its rival handhelds, it was reliable and it could be easily programmed, unlike other consoles before or since that seem hooked on the latest and often most costly gimmick.

Underpinning this was the philosophy of the Game Boy's designer: the late Gunpei Yakoi (1941-1997). He referred to his use of existing, tested and cheap know-how as ‘Lateral Thinking of Withered Technology’, and it is, at present, a concept that remains caged in the video games ghetto.

Yet if applied to areas outside of gaming, withered technology is potentially world changing. Take cars, those four-wheeled double-edged swords we both fret about and go shopping in. Instead of looking to some distant future of eco-friendly hydrogen-powered cars, why not refine what we can already do? Design cars that are modular in construction, for example. You can simply remove one older part for a newer, more efficient (or less broken) component when it becomes available rather than scrap the whole thing. Make car chassis from lighter, less resource hungry components and make them ergonomically styled so they can travel with less wind resistance, saving on petrol. Or make the venerable old internal combustion engine ever more fuel efficient and smaller, using less resources but being also cheaper to make.

A similar contribution can be made to healthcare. While we all seem obsessed about the cost of healthcare, no one is again asking how the price of medical treatment can be brought down. Right now, the average MRI machine can cost millions, operations tens of thousands and long term care can stretch into the hundreds of thousands. So why can’t researchers refine what they have got, making an MRI scanner cost half, or a quarter or even a tenth of what it costs now? As the Washington Post’s TR Reid points out, Japanese medical research labs have been doing precisely this for a while now, and the main beneficiaries have been Japanese patients, and indeed Japanese tax payers.

And then there is power generation. While we all panic about power stations spiking Co2 levels like a Mohican, the answer may be local, and withered. Every local community could have its own power source based on what is already available: coastal communities could have their own wave generators, hilly areas their own wind turbines and towns with rivers their own hydroelectric plants. Or even the Hyperion mini nuclear reactor, able to power small city blocks or villages. Local power generators for local communities not only means stronger infrastructure but also more efficiency as less electricity would be lost along long distance power lines.

We don’t even need to build new eco-towns. Existing buildings can be readapted via government or private sector grants to retain more heat, save more electricity and use water more efficiently. Let individual households and businesses make the decision, altering their houses with better insulation, more wind and solar power, and even geothermal power, making the most use of what we already have.

And withered technology could be the answer for the developing world too. Refining existing technologies, making them cheaper and more easily available would be a boon for the poor. Why not find ways to improve their farming, ensure they have sanitation, give them affordable health care and easy access to heat, electricity and the World Wide Web? Or perhaps we can find far more efficient ways of developing the Third World’s human capital, making them more productive and their lives less perilous. This is all possible now; it just requires new ways of making the delivery of these resources easier and more economical.

There is, as there always is, a downside though. Too much focus on withered technology may stop new ideas and developments taking root. But if we will always need the new, we also need to make the most of what we have too. The future should be withered.

Random Verse Outpouring - 'None of It Mattered'.

A day will come
When none of this matters
When all the charades and the farces
Blow away in the wind
And all the nonsense
And lies comes clean.

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Yes, it means so much now
But in the end
It means nothing
And all the faces
You say hello to
Will fade away
And the bonds you covet
Will fade away
And all the litte moments
Will fade away

Because
None of it mattered
We were all just passing through
None of it mattered
We were all just passing through
And
One day we took each other's masks away
And found there was nothing

Remember
When we walked to town
Dressed as children
And I said so many things
Big as clouds
And filling the sky
But in the end
I was full of nothing
And you faded
And I was alone
None of it mattered
None of it mattered
None of it mattered

And if you see my old face
Walking down the street
Remember I'm not there

None of it mattered
None of it mattered
None of it mattered at all.

Shameless Plug #1

The above image is © Mark Hoaksey, etc. etc.

Out now is the latest issue of Powerplay Magazine, issue 112, featuring an in-depth interview with controversial pop type metal persons Dead by April, as written by yours truly.

There's also an interview with Arch Enemy, a chat with Dez Fafara and loads of reviews, some of which have also poured out of my over-flowing pen.

Anyway, it's almost £4.00 and it's on sale at WH Smith's, so buybuybuy!

Rabbit, Rabbit and Rabbits At The Town Show.

The Dagenham Town Show was a good experience, despite the gale force winds and the looming threat of rain. There were lots of stalls in the community and society tents, there was a fun fair and you could even get a ride on a helicopter (if you had the money).

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We'd come to see Chas 'n Dave who were second on the bill from Aswad. It was an odd experience to be excited about a band that wasn't exactly at the apex of its fame, but the battered, tarnished gleam of old school celebrity seemed to shine all of a sudden. They were playing live! At a Town Show! In our area!!! This somehow made all the difference.

But Dave wasn't going to be there. The local paper had reported that his wife had died, this now being relevant since they were PLAYING! THE! TOWN! SHOW! so Dave dropped out and Chas had to press on alone. I was curious as to how that might work. I also felt rather miserable for Dave. It didn't make the national media and there were no vapid celeb-obsessed Heat readers discussing it in the pub. His loss wasn't considered worthy of 'proper' attention. But perhaps that was a blessing?

Life carried on though. There were slightly over-priced hot-dogs to savour and a cocktail tent too! (No proper beer tent, though. They didn't want to give the proles ideas.)



We went to the youth club tent. We went past some St John's Ambulance cadets as we went in. They were clad in sinister black paramilitary uniforms and berets, like a sort of junior fascist paramedic cadre. Inside, the local boxing club had gloves and punch bags. I pounded one bag while imagining it was the face of various twats I'd run into over the years. The world was full of them. It felt good.



The local city farm had a fine array of animals to look at.



The rabbits, guinea pigs and Shetland pony all seemed quite sanguine, despite all the enormous pink and brown hairless things gawping at them while making a dreadful racket.



A toddler fired his bubble pistol at a pedigree goose, who just trotted off for a drink. Idiot humans? Comes with the territory.



The show was also a good way to see all sorts of different people who would normally never meet. Chavs rubbed shoulders with middle class art society members, emos casually strolled past army recruiters in field uniforms, young and old wandered in the midst of one another and even those strange, seldom seen and almost mythical creatures called 'the police' made an apperance.



The best part of the show was the Dagenham Idol, or rather a straw and wicker homage to it. The original was a wooden figure from the Bronze age, Excavated in the local area c. 1922, and possibly a symbol of fertility. The artists who were assembling the homage claimed there was a tug of love over it between another local park and the museum where the real idol resided. No violence was involved, but the idol had no doubt roused primal and savage territorial instincts.

In the end, I had to miss Chas and go home to look after someone who was feeling ill. For all the wind, it felt like a good experience, if a little truncated.

The Friday Short Story: Derelict

It's dusk. I never come out by day, only at dusk.

I'm hiding in a filthy, piss-yellow skip off Oxford Street, in Ramillies Place. I lift the top out and slink out. Flies blow out in my wake. I seem to be sleeping with every louse in town. I can feel the itch of their bites as they scab over.

There is dried blood on my chin.
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My pulse is going at Mach 2 right now. There's a voice in my head that's screaming Gogogogogogo! You've been seen. Getthefuckoutofhere! Getthefuckoutofhere! GO!

I move as fast as my legs will catch me. They're thin but taut. I've got an urban fox physique on my legs, my gut, my chest, my arms. I'm quick and strong - that's useful. I run into the alley nearby and kneel down. It's a false alarm. No one saw me - not at 6.30pm on a Sunday night in London. But I'm starting to see things again. Fuck me, must be the paranoia or inner demons or whatever bollocks you care to blame it on. Maybe it's 'cos I'm hungry?

I can see a grimy white Xri driven by a baseball cap-wearing chav driving past my hidey-hole in the alley. Ice Cube's bellowing out of the speakers for me to go check myself.

OK - I'll do it. I'm gaunt - as I said - and six foot two. I've got a thin, drawn face that makes me look older than I am. My skin's pale and pasty - too little sun. Like I care. My hair's receding and what I've got left hangs down from my crown like lank wire wool. I've got a deep blue Adidas tee-shirt on, last fashionable some time in 1995. But you can't tell I've got it on 'cos I'm wearing it under half a dozen jerseys, fleeces and a manky parka. My jeans are filthy, caked in grease and the grime of a thousand tube seats. They stink of sickly sweet eau de stale piss. My feet are bare and leathery, like my hands. They're all thin and long with tendons and veins running under my skin like roots from a big, thirsty tree. Every bit of me that's not got clothes on is covered in a thin film of dirt, with grime under my long, uncut nails. There's dried blood under there too. Aren't I a picture?

When I snatch a look in the mirrors at the Leicester Square bogs (that are free, best of all), I can see my eyes are going a bit yellow. My teeth are dirty and stink but don't seem to be going rotten. The gums have receded but are healthy and pink and make my teeth look bigger. The better to eat you with, Red Riding Hood, unless you let me feel your tits. Heh. I might smell, but I'm in good condition. That's the secret - steal fruit from stalls and shops when you can. Never drink or eat any shit with processed sugar. Water or even fruit juice is best. Oh and eat every day…

I'm hungry. I can tell, 'cos that's when my heart starts pounding hard, like it's trying to bust out of my chest. My stomach's so numb these days, I can't feel fuck all down there anyway. Time to move.

I check the coast's clear from the cover of my alley. There's a few revellers out there but they won't notice another dirty tramp on the move. So I head down Ramillies Place and take a turn into Marlborough Street. I'm heading into Soho's square mile. Give me there any day. Over the road, north of Oxford Street, is Noho, and I can't be arsed with all those toffee-nosed yuppie bastards you get there. Even a tramp's got to have standards. True, you get all the media and advertising pricks in Soho bars, but they're funny. Taste nice too.

There's a certain trick to moving incognito in London. First, you've got to understand that us Brits like to go about with our heads up our arses. We don't notice what's going on that much, 'cos that takes too much commitment and - gasp - personal initiative. Now you, Mr. Foreign Reader, may think this is a bad thing . But let me tell you this - it's Manna from heaven for the likes of me. Everyone's so busy living in their own little world or looking the other way or staring at the pavement as they walk that Mr. Dodgy Tramp (me) can slide past without them noticing. I'll move through whole crowds and no one will notice. They just see trash and don't pay much attention. That's very useful, like stripes on a tiger or the skin on a big python - it stops you being spotted. You'll walk past me 100 times and you'll never notice I'm there unless I want you too.

So there I am, heading down Marlborough, then Poland Street. I'm really hungry now. The last time I fed was on Friday. That was too risky - the streets were jammed with people. But I had to feed. Fair and Square. And I now have to feed again.

Picking prey in Soho is easy. First, you've got to know who NOT to hunt. First, leave the locals alone. You can tell who they are. They're the ones who've got this air of wariness and total confidence about them. It's like they're expecting me. They move quickly and look around all the time without knowing it. They know the streets and the layout of the Square Mile backwards. They're utterly comfortable in their environment - so you'd have trouble getting them - and they'd be missed too.

And that's why you don't go for anyone who looks Chinese either. I don't care if you think they're really Japs or Koreans or whatever. China Town is just down the road in Gerard Street and that lot are seriously fucking close-knit. If any of 'em goes missing, the whole bloody lot of 'em know about it by the end of the week. And what they know, the police soon find out.

Same with gays and lesbians. There might be loads of 'em in London, but the scene is just small enough for even one poof or dyke to be seriously missed. And if they find out what you've been up to, they're more willing than most to raise hell 'till you're caught. It's a good thing my Gaydar's pretty sharp, that's all I can say.

Never do prostitutes either. There's plenty of them about. Plus Joe Public doesn't give a flying toss about any of them. Perfect, right? BUT there's not a slag on the street that doesn't have at least one good friend and fellow whore who'll start panicking and calling the pigs. Plus, there's a large number of slags who are turned out by pimps and gangs. Doing those kinds of whore will get far nastier people than cops after you, and they're far more likely to get you too.

I leave my fellow homeless alone too. Most are pretty unhealthy and can pass whatever filthy shit they've got onto you. That can be anything - mostly hepatitis, though or even HIV if they're smackheads. That lot are worse than whores: they'll fuck ANYONE for their next fix. Plus, there are some seriously tough old tramps out there - ex-army - who are good at sleeping rough, knowing where there's danger and fighting back. Never go for anyone who can take you on.

No, go for people like the bloke who's just walked out of a chill-out, funky-bollocks bar on Broadwich Street, with loud Jazz pounding out inside. He's got all the right qualities. First bit of good news: he's a bit overweight - I'll explain why that helps later. The prat is also wearing creased chinos over which he's got on a bright pink Ben Sherman shirt. It ain't tucked in - scruffy bastard. He's got these expensive shoes on plus one of those short, almost shaved-off hair cuts the Soho media tossers like to have these days.

But still, I like him. He's drunk, doesn't seem to notice what's going on around him and he's concentrating on bellowing into a mobile phone. Which means he won't notice me. He's probably walked out of the bar so he can hear what the berk on the other end of the line is saying. That's good too. It'll mean he'll find somewhere nice and quiet to talk, where there won't be witnesses.

So I start to follow him. He's oblivious and he's just wandered into Carnaby Street. I'd better make this quick before the prick's mates in the bar want to know where he's gone. Instead, he's turned into Ganton Street. Gotcha! There's an alley there, where I can do my thing.

First, I check. No one else around. Good. I move up quickly behind him and put on my best tramp act:

"Mate! MATE!" I shout.

"Wha'? 'Ang on Patrick…" he says in a mock cockney accent, trying to cover up the time he spent at public school. I like the way he flinches as he turns 'round to look at me. All these cocks in London who think they're men of the world but still can't bear to look a derelict in the face!

Still, I have a part to play… "Mate, have you got a light? Or a fag? C'mon, I need a fag…"

"FUCK OFF!" he says and goes back to his call. Shit! I forgot about that phone! They heard my voice and there's now more than one person who knows I'm there. Witnesses, even if they're on a 'phone line, are dangerous. I grit my teeth and walk away. This one won't do.

So I drift through Soho. What do I do now? Dunno. I go up the back alley over the road from the Intrepid Fox pub on Wardour Street. I might be able to scavenge something from the bin bags there. It looks like a shit evening all round.

And that's where I find her. Near the bins, a girl is bent over, puking up. She's around the corner of the alley so she's out of sight from the main road. She's a bit chunky and has a big arse. Good. Lots more of what I need. Thing is, she's got a grey mini-skirt and a blue boob tube on, so she's probably a refugee from a Hen Night that got split up. Her clothes, what there is of them, are a bit tight, so rolls of fat stick out where they dig into her. She's got badly dyed brown hair with a crap perm, pulled up into a Croydon facelift. Her face is like a Hamster having a shit - chubby, screwed up and with beady little eyes.

I know this, 'cos she's just looked up and seen me standing behind her. There's just enough time for her to realise that no one else can see what's about to happen.
She hasn't time to react. I've done this so many times now; it's second nature. First, I twist her arm up behind her back and use my weight to force her onto the ground. My other hand goes across her mouth to stop her screaming. I tell her to be still. Very still. She's so scared now that she does just what I want her to. So I let go of her arm… and smack her hard on the jaw. That always knocks them out.

I then pull out a razor blade from my pocket and slice deep and clean along the big vein on her throat. The blood spurts out straightaway, but I've got my lips around the cut so none gets wasted. Arterial spray is like those water fountains we got at school. It comes out half way between a fine mist and a trickle so I have to be patient. There's the same dirty metal taste too. I like it. Best of all, she's fat and fat shits always have more blood.

Are you disgusted? Good. Go fuck yourself. Shall I sit on the pavement and look pathetic and hope you chuck me a 50 Euro coin? Shall I stand on the street corner and get ignored as I try to sell a copy of The Big Issue to dick-heads in suits? Or should I just throw myself at your feet and beg for every state handout and second-hand bed in a shelter that you can be bothered to offer? Go fuck yourself. You walk past me every day and either ignore me or look at me like I'm shit. And you must feel great giving £10 to a pack of lentil-eating, woolly cardigan-wearing cunt charities who only have a job 'cos they spend all day wringing their hands over us poor lost souls. Go fuck yourself.

So I do what I do to survive and not have to take orders from twats like you. Don't like me? Tough shit. I don't need your approval. I lurk, I hide, I feed. And you can't do fuck all to stop me. I'm freer than you with your mortgages, your debts, your mewling, ungrateful kids in their ideal state school you begged and cajoled to get them into and your sagging, moaning old bag of a career woman wife. You spend all your time wanting what you're told to and getting only what they give you. I don't wash and I kill to live. You wear after-shave and eat shit to exist.

Go fuck yourself.

I drink as much blood as I can, and cauterise the wound with a lighter I always keep handy. Then I break the bitch's neck. It pays not to have witnesses. I stick her body into a bin-liner and mix it with the rest of the rubbish bags in the alley. The thick bastards they have doing the bins in Soho don't notice just how many stiffs they sling into their trucks. I'm sure I'm not the only one who does it around here. Those enterprising Albanian and London gangsters must be in on the same trick too. Sooner or later one will get found. It's getting too dangerous around here. So I might move onto Camden soon. Suck some goths or grebo dopeheads instead. A change of pace. But right now, I'm off home.

So out I go, slipping out of the alley at just the right time so none of the pissheads see me. Timing is everything. I've had a lot of blood and I'm drowsy. I sneak back to the skip on Ramillies. I sneak in and close the lid. Soon it will be dawn. I fall asleep and have sweet dreams.

I wake the next evening. It's dusk. I never come out by day, only at dusk… There is dried blood on my chin. And I am hungry again.

You Have (Not) Been Watching (Proper Charlie Brooker).

Contrary to the song, Charlie Brooker is not right about everything. Zombies don't run, end of. The Wire is just another US cop show once you get past the flourishes. And Quake wasn't really that good either.

Still, the Boy Brooker, a roaring mass of rage, self-deprecating angst and lucidity, is right 90% of the time, which is a damn sight more than most meeja creatures. So it's a bit depressing to see him slumming it on a sort of ghastly vehicle on Channel 4.

Said vehicle, 'You Have Been Watching' (Wednesdays, Channel 4, 10pm), has pretty much everything that Brooker does well. The bitter, incisive critique of shit TV remains sharp and the man's wisdom-disguised-as-snark is all present and correct. It's all in the same tone as his journalism, his tv shows and his overall output. So far, so good. He remains the boy who points out that the Emperor's knob is waving around, and that there really is something interesting going on behind that curtain.

The problem lies in who he's addressing this to. Whereas before, with his journalism and his TV shows, you always felt like he was directly addressing you, and in terms of format, he was. It's hard not to watch Screenwipe or Newswipe and not feel that he was having a direct conversation with his audience.

But in YHBW, he's not talking to the viewer any more. No, he has a panel of celebrity guests to talk to instead. He's talking to some silly broad you've never heard of, one or two Barry Shitpeas-types who have a crap show in the Edinburgh fringe to plug and some comedian who was funny in the 90s but now seems paid to have that sort of snide cynicism British people often have when they can't be arsed to have a properly thought-out opinion.

Brooker himself has hit out at 'the talent', yet here he is in the midst of all that bullshit. Worst still, he's also got a live audience of people who laugh out loud whenever anything funny or meant to be funny is said. It's canned laughter, which is to say, yet more bullshit. The old school viewer is left watching on the sidelines, listening in like an eavesdropping orphan as Brooker tries to force himself to actually like talking to these dipshits while the punters watching from the stands giggle unconvincingly. Ever had a cool friend who dumps you to hang out with utter cocks who seem to be more popular? That, dear reader, is what YHBW is all about.

But in doing so, it loses what was so strong and urgent about Brooker's output. It works best when he's actually looking you in the eye, and he seems far too ashamed to do that in this show, so he looks at the non-entities sitting next to him instead. It's satire in sore need of satirising. I sincerely hope it flops so he can go back to doing what he does best, which is to say, actually being Charlie Brooker.

What This Blog Will Do Now.

Readers,

It's time to diversify. Mainly this is due to me being too busy to update the blog with new material all the time. But I also write lots of other things and it's time to give them a platform too. So from now on, I still will post up the occasional piece about life in London, but I will also post short stories I've written - with a mostly London-based theme - and the odd article on whatever is obsessing me these days.

I'll also be plugging my work for Powerplay Magazine, which is available in all good WH Smiths outlets, a wonderful publication, fun for all the family, blahblahblah.

Some caveats: firstly, no I don't want any submissions. If I do publish anyone else's work it will be because I already know them and we've agreed to it as a one-off. Anyone else who sends me anything will be reminded of this (politely) by e-mail and then their submission will be deleted.

Also, everything on this blog, except where stated, is © Me. If you wish to reproduce anything, you will need my express permission or I will set the baying hounds on you.