Not so Fantasy TV Listings

UK TV HITLER

Schedule for every day of the week when we aren't showing Coast or that Adam Hart-Taxman. Or late night Secret History of Pron.

9am Hello my name is Hitler and this is my story. A shocking new documentary that shows Hitler being nice to a dog, looks at the holocaust from his point of view ("I vas framed I tells you!") and asks if he is misunderstood. Directed by David Irving.

10am Goerring's Underpants. Trinni and Susannah take a look at the various pants worn by Goering as he commanded the Luftwaffe. Part one in a series of programmes looking at Nazi underwear and its place in the ultimate downfall of National Socialism.

11am Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em A biography of Klara Hitler

Noon Spandau Ballet Rudolph Hess's groundbreaking barre work in the notorious prison. How strong was his influence on post-war ballet, modern dance developments and the new romantic movement?

1pm-5pm An Afternoon with Hitler Various films looking at Hitler in Lederhosen, trimming his moustache, shouting and gesticulating and being an evil dictator. Highlights include previously unseen footage of the Nuremburg rallies, The Berlin Olympics and Hitler's hilarious struggle with a particularly stubborn bratwurst.

5-6pm Tea-with Hitler Hitler Jackanory style. Early radio recordings of Hilter reading Aryan themed bed-time stories with a twist

6-7pm Brian Sewell on Hitler the Artist Sewell poo-poos Hitler's rubbish paintings. Pick of the Day

8-9pm The SS in Colour Virile men marching up and down in their uniforms while a voice over tries not to get too excited about their muscles and blond hair. Not suitable viewing for children.

9-Midnight Goebbels, Himmler and Hitler too. Goebbels and Himmler live on a bleak council estate on the outskirts of Munich. They meet Hitler and things happen in the back of his car. Hitler: I thought I were bloody great! Midnight Close.

These are a few of my favourite things

Here are a few bits and pieces from last night that made me laugh at the time, and so I'm keeping them here in my blog/diary/scrapbook - hunkahunka burnin' vanity!

On Boy George:

He's forgotten to paint his neck black, thoughbut so I can tell that he really is Fat George and not Svelte George.

When he paints his neck black I can't tell that he's fat you see. It's like magic. BLACK magic!

hahahahahahaha!



On Peg McCartney and the tramps bussed in from Hyderabad to micturate upon her person:

It was the talk of the Hammersmith underpass or something. They queued for hours to piss on her.

That's why she puts on the stretch legs now and has a little wee on Africa. She re-enacts her shame in the only way she knows how. She tries to direct her wee wee so it lands on Ethiopia and the Sudan and places where it's not very rainy and then when they look up and shake their fists at her she's all 'I am a goddess, you ungrateful bastards, my wee wee is like golden rain, it'll make your crops grow, you fucking fuckers!'

Of course it does make some minging carrots grow, but they taste of piss, so no one wants them.

On Childhood ignorance which may be bliss:

When I was growing up and I first heard of Al Jolson and saw the Black and White Minstrels, I thought they were all actual black men and I didn't know why they wanted to paint their mouths and around their eyes, white.

I also didn't know why they were so fucking shit.

There was Otis and Marvin and stuff and then there were these strange men in boaters and stripey blazers who were very shit - what was going on? My poor little brain used to wonder.

Then again I'm also the child who wondered why everyone hated Hitler so much and thought that a tv advert for Planet of the Apes was in fact a news bulletin and that apes were taking over the world and couldn't figure out why no one seemed at all bothered about it.

I was a wee bit special.

On Orcadians' rightful and wrongful beliefs:

They're right to believe in the debbil, but they're very wrong to dress him in a tutu and call him Susan.

On Edward Woodward as both Zombie and a Yoko Ono de nos jours (well de jours perdu or something):

I'd always had my suspicions about that Edward Woodward being a reanimated corpse - and I'm right!

Did you know that he was the Yoko Ono of the Police? Basically he met Stewart Copeland and said 'Sting bad. You come play drum for me now. Me make Equalizer. Me want your drum. You play. Me like.' (he's a reanimated corpse, and his language is a bit basic - when he's doing the telly and films and stuff they dub him with Frank Spencer whose Betty he married). Copeland saw that he was right and he had a fight with Sting and killed him and joined the Equalisers.

Unfortunately Andrew Lloyd Weber gave Sting the kiss of life and created a Monkey-faced Cunt out of bin bags and potato peelings to be his wife.

Steven Spielberg Eat Your Heart Out!

I'd like to make a film where the Fresh Prince punches an alien who looks too much like L. John Travolta to not be him. Following the inevitable 'Who's the man!' he would spot a monkey in a waistcoat pointing frantically to a space behind Will's head. He turns. It is renowned heterosexualist, L. Tom Cruise, a gruesome coward attempting to take Smith from behind ( ...). Thus forewarned by the sartorially elegant simian, the Fresh Prince punches L. Tom Cruise. Hard. And then shoots him repeatedly in the face with a rather large gun. Cruise lies dead, the monkey jumps into Will Smith's arms, Smith turns to the monkey and says 'You the man little fellow. You the man!'

Fin.

And then the world fell out of my bottom ...

An extract taken from something written a while back:

It made me feel as though I had created something Shakespearian in contrast. Well it would have if I had disappeared that far up my own arse, as it is, I'm currently only on speaking terms with my anus and have yet to book a trip to my colon.

…Right, time to see if Thomas Cook do short breaks to one's own duodenum ...

Oh Man! News Just In

It would appear that the Isle of Wight (380 sq km) is no longer large enough to hold the entire world's population nose to nose and, blah. Exploding and expanding populations have meant that a larger island is now needed for a world party (albeit a very uncomfortable one, with a very long queue for the toilets), but the UK still holds its ground.

The Island chosen is the Isle of Man (572 sq km).While in many ways this change of island has little real impact on the geographical scale of how to measure things, it must be noted that the Isle of Man being further north than the Isle of Wight, has a less inviting climate. It would also be remiss of the author not to point out to the population of the world that the native population of Man are a little on the eccentric side. (I think I've said it politely enough. They're not freaks, oh no. Not at all. Really.)It's a shame that Jersey or Guernsey aren't a bit bigger ...

On Hearing that France is a Measurement.

I don't think everything is the size of France. France is rather large (547,030 sq km), so using it as a measurement of size would make accurate measurement very difficult. In fact France is somewhere in between Texas (696,241 sq km) and California (410,000 sq km). Not quite as big as Texas but rather larger than California. It being larger than California is handy, because France is fat and California is long and thin and it would hurt the brain a lot if one had to start thinking "wow, and they're like the same size. No way! Way!" One could get very technical about the whole thing and say that France = California + Alabama (135,765 km sq), but this would be silly and inadvisable.

The question of Rhode Island is easily answered. It is 4,005 sq km. This means that Americans are measuring on a smaller scale than the British, because Wales is over five times the size of Rhode Island at 20,779 sq km. For Americans to match "An area the size of Wales has been lost from the rainforest" they would have to say "An area five times the size of Rhode Island has been lost...blah" This might appeal to their "Whoa, that must be huge !" sensibilities, but then again it's unlikely that they'd be paying much attention to areas of rainforest falling off the face of the planet because (a) they might be the ones losing it for the sake of a hamburger and (b) there is no global warming. Period. Got that!

However, if they wanted to keep in line with British measurements they could adopt the Vermont scale. Vermont is slightly larger than Wales (and has better skiing) at 24,923 sq km, but as we already know that nature tends toward the size of Wales, I'm sure that an extra 4,144 sq km here or there wouldn’t make that much difference. One might ask why not the English scale or the Scottish scale? I would answer -- they are too large for fiddly measurements. Surely better to say the size of Wales than roughly one sixth the size of England (130,395 sq km) (leading to cries of ‘that’s not much is it’) or a quarter of the size of Scotland (78.782 sq km) (leading to similar bemusement). (For fans of the US/UK cross over, England = Louisiana (134,382) , Scotland = South Carolina (82,965 sq km), with the proviso that both states are a little larger than their British counterparts. No surprise there).'What of Northern Ireland!', I don’t hear you cry. Well Northern Ireland at 13,843 sq km might seem like the ideal measurement. Neither too large or too small, but as we have already noted, nature tends toward the Taff and therefore small and imperfectly formed as it is, N. Ireland is ruled out. (Connecticut (14,371 sq km) btw)

And then we have something that the US doesn’t; the Isle of Wight. At 380 sq km, one has to acknowledge its diminutiveness, but that’s all the space needed to have all the world’s population standing side by side, and one imagines back to back and front to back and back to…etc. Probably not as comfortably as if they did it on Rhode Island, but that’s hardly the point.So there we have it. Nature abhors a vacuum, but is clearly rather fond of Wales, and probably has a passing fancy for Vermont too. Despite attempts to the contrary, it’s clear that she is only playing with Rhode Island’s feelings and has yet to be seduced by Gallic Charms. She allegedly told Alaska to go fuck itself a couple of millennia ago and it has been lost in an icy strop ever since.

The Luck of the Irish: Potatoes (an old 'favourite')

(From December 7th 2004)

The potato is writ large in Irish history. A lack of them caused famine, disease and death in the 1840s and 50s. A surfeit of them are to be found in any mammy's culinary repetoire to this day. I have always loved the potato, baked, boiled, fried, mashed, roasted, chipped. However last week my love affair was compromised and the potato and I are not back on friendly terms. Yet.

I sat down to eat my dinner alone on Friday. Fresh veg, roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and of course roast potatoes. I had only had a few mouthfuls when a piece of potato -- and if I'm honest, I knew that it was a bit too large but went ahead anyway -- became lodged in my throat. At first I was only slightly annoyed, and thought if I just kept swallowing it would go down. I soon realised this wasn't going to work. If it wouldn't come down I'd have to bring it up, but this wasn't working either. I began to worry. Worry turned to panic. I've seen the episode of Six Feet Under where the opening death is a single woman who dies for want of a heimlich manoeuvre! Panic was not going to help so I decided that I would calm myself by slowing down and breathing through my nose. It wasn't happening. Now I'm sure it was, but I felt like the potato was blocking all air, and even if it wasn't, it was certainly cutting down the amount that was getting there.

Inside I was screaming "You're going to die, you're going to die here all alone and your cat will eat you!" I mentally slapped myself, but I was rather scared by this point. I continued to try to hoick up the potato, nothing doing, and then I decided that was that and went out of my front door. If I had to accost a passer by to smack my back or squeeze the potato out of me, so be it. I certainly wasn't going to be killed by a lump of vegetable!

As luck would have it as soon as I hit the fresh air, the hoicking worked and enough potato came up to dislodge the lump. Some came up, the rest went down after a bit more hard swallowing, and if I was seen looking like a barefoot tramp vomiting on my own doorstep, what of it! I was alive. I had defeated the potato.

I haven't eaten a potato since. I will; I love them too much to hold a quasi-near death experience against them forever. Next time, however, I'll make sure I cut them up a wee bit smaller.