Saturday, March 05, 2005

Little Britain

I hate watching David Walliams, looking for all the world like a crow with its skin on inside out, screech and gurn across the screen, the knowledge that he is less funny then the cellulite on Matt Lucas' thighs etched across his wizened, desperate features. It's like listening to a lobster die.

I hate seeing the same jokes, most not worthy of repetition, ever-more hysterically overplayed week-by-week, until the one grain of truth which contained whatever humour they may have held initially, is swamped by catchphrases shouted ever louder.

I hate the fact that you can hear the butts of the jokes reciting the lines wherever you go. If the scum aren't offended, you're not doing your fucking job. Go back and try harder, and this time make them as soulless and unlovable as they are in real life.

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