The American Version

Growing up I was often forced to break the law.

My parents were criminals not because they robbed banks or blew up shopping malls, but because our house was practically a warehouse of books and films banned by the Apartheid government.

Of course, it didn’t take much for the forever-frowning, downturned-mouth racists at the board of censors to ban something. Most of it was laughable; like the banning of the novel ‘Black Beauty’ for obvious, albeit ridiculous, reasons.

It was hard to get good telly. You see, the British were holding ‘Free Mandela’ rallies and imposing sanctions, and my parents couldn’t bear the thought that their kids would have to make do with American television.

So mum and dad would sneak in bootleg copies of ‘The Benny Hill Show’ and ‘Fawlty Towers’ – the kind of thought-provoking art they knew mattered.

The Americans, who didn’t have a problem with Apartheid because they thought all blacks were Communists, flooded our market and our tv screens with ‘Airwolf’, ‘The A-Team’ and ‘Murder She Wrote’.

I don’t think anyone will seriously argue the superiority of British television. I believe this is mainly because in Hollywood original thought is for amateurs.

And of all the Yank shows stolen from the Brits I can’t think of one Brit show stolen from the Yanks.

The British also manage to restrain themselves; with the average show lasting maybe three or four seasons no matter how popular it is. Americans, on the other hand, will milk the cow until its udder turns to dust. It’s all fair play if it’s a show you love, but more often than not the Yanks run it drier than a cheap table wine and by the time the show is cancelled it’s become so lame your entire memory of it is ruined.

And it’s all such flag-waving masturbation. If you believe films like ‘Saving Private Ryan’ you’d think that it was only the Yanks who fought World War 2. I mean, did anyone even know that Australia was involved in the Vietnam War?

The irony is that in South Africa, even though the American government supported the National Party’s retarded policies, we still love them so much that half the country puts on a fake Wesley Snipes accent.

I think Ernest Hemingway said that “a good writer borrows, but a great writer steals.” So, of course, I could just be full of shit.

How Sue Sylvester C's It!

Too many of my friends refuse to watch the telly show Glee because they fear that liking it might make them question their sexuality. My wife and I bang on about it so much someone remarked that we sound like freshly brainwashed Christians.

I’m not sure what it is about Glee – the singing, the slushies-in-the-face, but one thing that stands out is the heinous, Machiavellian monster that is Sue Sylvester.

So in an attempt to convert my too-macho-for-their-own-good mates, I’ve compiled fifteen of the most despicable Sue Sylvester quotes from the first season of Glee.

In her own words: “You are about to board the Sue Sylvester Express. Destination: Horror!”

1. “You know, for me, trophies are like herpes. You try to get rid of them, but they keep coming. You know why? Sue Sylvester has hourly flare-ups of burning, itchy, highly contagious talent.”

2. “I've never wanted kids... don't have the time, don't have the uterus.”

3. "You know what, I checked out of our conversation about a minute back, so good luck with your troubles, and I'm gonna make it a habit not to stop and talk to students because this has been a colossal waste of my time."

4. “You have all the sexuality of all those pandas down at the zoo who refuse to mate."

5. "I'm reasonably confident that you will be adding revenge to the long list of things you're no good at, right next to being married, running a high school glee club, and finding a hair style that doesn't make you look like a lesbian.”

6. “I thought I smelled cookies wafting from the ovens of the little elves who live in your hair.”

7. "I will go to the animal shelter and get you a kitty cat. I will let you fall in love with that kitty cat. And then on some dark cold night, I will steal away into your house and punch you in the face."

8. “Your delusions of persecution are a tell-tale sign of early stage paranoid schizophrenia.”

9. “I'm having a really difficult time hearing anything you have to say today because your hair looks like a briar patch. I keep expecting racist, animated Disney characters to pop up and start singing songs about living on the bayou.”

10. "Every time I try to destroy that clutch of scab-eating mouth-breathers, it only comes back stronger, like some sexually ambiguous horror villain."

11. “I am engorged with venom and triumph.”

12. "I, for one, think intimacy has no place in marriage. I walked in on my parents once and it was like seeing two walruses wrestling."

13. “Boy, the only thing missing from this place is a couple dozen bodies – limed and rotting in shallow graves under the floorboards.”

14. “Oh I will bring it, William. You know what else I'm gonna to bring? I'm gonna bring some Asian cookery to wipe your head with. Cause right now you've got enough product in your hair to season a wok.”

15. “Your resentment... is delicious.”

And that’s how Sue… C’s it!

Kim and Kourtney Krap on my Kranium

It was the oddest thing. I don’t know what it says about our society or psychology. All I know is it fascinated and disgusted at the same time.

On an uneventful afternoon, lying on the couch, having finished the paper and flipping through television channels, I happened to catch an episode of ‘Kardashians Take New York’ or whatever it’s called.

The not-so-pretty sister was telling her husband he would get sex when her more-famous sister went out for dinner, but on the discovery that her sibling was going to stay in and watch movies they headed off to the gym where they supposedly shagged in the bogs.

The disgusting part wasn’t the thought of them bumping uglies next to a sloshing urinal – for we only got to see them enter and exit (with feigned naughtiness expressed on their heavily made-up mugs) – but the fact that it was all so obviously staged.

Maybe I’m new to the idea of reality tv just being badly scripted and horribly acted fiction, but if so an even more disturbing revelation is that millions of people across the world tune in every week to watch a sitcom where the ‘sit-’ is boring and the ‘-com’ non-existent.

And then I thought that if life imitates art and we are all mediated beings (learning our way through the world via television et al) maybe future generations – thinking this is a kind of real-time art form – would learn their responses to situations from the worst actors.

Would future sincerity appear fake to older, less mediated generations if later generations have learnt to express their emotions from these ‘stars’?

Is it going to be harder for our kids to spot a lie if they believe the ‘reality’ on television to be just that?

If so, then I think I’d advise my kids to careers as conmen, car salesmen, or politicians.

Prime Slime

Maybe E-TV should just go ahead and change its name to WWE-TV.

No matter what time of the day, if you switch over to this channel, you’re sure to witness two guys pretending to beat the bejeezus out of each other. We all know it’s an act, and that no one really gets hurt, but we call it ‘sport’ and watch it anyway.

I’ll admit it makes for better daytime television than Days of our Lives reruns and infomercials for snail goo face packs, but the fact that it’s Prime Time viewing is a pretty pathetic reflection of public intellectualism.

Why is this American theatre on in a South African Prime Time slot anyway? Is the target audience for ETV really so undiscerning? Or do we as a nation like to unwind after a hard day’s slog by watching grown men slap and pull hair?

WWE Wrestling is kind of like a violent soap opera for boys. The men tend to spend more time scheming and insulting each other on-stage (or in-ring?) than actually fighting, and the costumes are so camp they could be rejects from the set of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.

For decades parents have expressed concern about their children being exposed to such violence, but to my mind there is a lot more to be worried about if your kids idolise these artificial athletes.

I’d feel as though I’d neglected my duties as a responsible parent if one day my son asked for a t-shirt bearing the flexing bicep and growling mug of some bulging steroid case who dressed in tight luminous bicycle shorts and bickered like a menstruating fishwife with other, similarly-attired men.

Having your kids grow up to think all problems are solved through violence is one thing, but if they have to pop on a yellow one-piece and police-dog muzzle first, you know you’ve got problems.

With more of a sense of social responsibility, the SABC often televises boring ministerial debates during the day. And I’m sure the housewives and unemployable alcoholics who watch our politicians look down on those who choose the sweaty beefcakes.

But I suppose in Parliament the characters are as ridiculous, the arguments even more childish, and the eventual outcome just as pointless.

Is Lady Rugga A Muncher?

Local television sucks.

Most of the time our comedies are as amusing as stepping barefoot in dog shit, our dramas are less controversial than the general family get-together, and our game shows are low-budget replicas of better-produced, more entertaining overseas ones.

We follow the American formula when it comes to everything from our scripts to our cookie-cutter, assembly-line television presenters, and viewers should keep this in mind when anticipating the forthcoming selection of the “first female rugby commentator in South Africa”.

That quote is being trumpeted at the moment louder than the Stormers fans’ boo’s at an opposing team; like it’s a gigantic, stiletto’d leap forward for gender rights.

Following from the success of the ‘Player 23’ marketing campaign, Vodacom has created ‘Lady Rugga’ – which I’m assuming is a female version of the Jan and Elton characters from their adverts.

What they don’t realise is they’re setting themselves up for an epic fail no matter what the outcome.

Most girls I know don’t know much about what should really be called the beautiful game, and the handful of women’s rugby matches I’ve taken in haven’t held my interest as much as, say, Anna Kournikova in a short skirt at Wimbledon.

At risk of a black eye, let’s just say the girls who pass around the pigskin ain’t dainty. But having said that I’m sure they know a hell of a lot more than me about the game’s strategy and rules and psychological burdens.

And therein lies the rub. Because of our broadcasters’ insistence that any member of the female persuasion on telly must be eye-gogglingly and mind-bogglingly beautiful, petite and slim, where are they going to find a sexy presenter with the rugby chops to keep up with Naas Botha and the other guy with the flat hairdo?

Is it going to be a blonde bimbo who knows nothing about the game? Just throwing a petrol bomb onto the fire of the chauvinistic ignorance of the average rugby fan?

Or a meaty, hairy-chinned female forward to do the job? Perpetuating the other stereotype of the rugby chick being an over-testosterone’d vagina-tarian?

I await the result with bated breath.