Monday 17 December 2007

Ladies wot Lunch

Kids’ programmes at lunchtime are really important. I mean really really important. I mean, I bet we wouldn't have such brilliant fire fighters if kids hadn't been inspired by Fireman Sam’s rescue missions or stirred by Cuthbert, Dibble and Grub sliding down their pole.

That would be so cool to inspire children to take up important jobs like that. And children still have to eat lunch so what a brilliant time of the day to do it? I reckon a twenty first century Watch With Carer is such a great idea, I thought they must be doing it already in TV Land so I went down to see if I could help out.

I was a bit nervous to go into the studio because I now know that audiences can be very scary but these ladies weren’t baying for blood like the morning talk show people. They had no voices left to bay for anything because they’d been singing along at last night’s performance of Mama Mia. They were still very excited though. I overheard the floor manager say there was a definite whiff of HRT in the air. I think that’s like CK1. I think they may have had free squirts on patches in the ladies toilet because several of the ladies had their pants in their hands so I guess they’d forgotten to pull them up in their excitement to have a free squirt.

Anyway before they had a chance to put their pants back on, a very pretty plastic lady walked out with two mugs of coffee and sat behind the presenters’ desk. The ladies in the audience applauded in a very friendly fashion– like my auntie who always sends me a birthday card but never sends a present. I thought if I were round my auntie’s house, I would enjoy watching this show with her.

Then the pretty plastic lady put her two mugs of coffee on the presenters’ desk. As she put down the second one, the audience of aunties seemed to go mad. It was a happy mad though and they all looked like the girl in the Mama Mia poster, except she isn’t throwing her pants in the air. The Aunties were throwing their pants. Not straight away, but when this orange man suddenly ran down the audience stairs. He stopped and kissed a couple of the aunties before energetically joining the pretty plastic lady behind the presenter’s desk.

It was hard to hear what the presenters were called but I think she called him Dead and he called her Melt. They were quite good names because it was hot under those lights and she was pretty plastic and he was ancient enough to be dead, except that he was orange. Anyway Dead and Melt said they had a great show lined up and pointing to an empty stool, said they were looking forward to a surprise guest. I thought it only fair to put them out of their misery so I ran over and climbed on the stool and shouted ‘surprise!’

They weren’t so much surprised as stunned, especially when I said something about the place thronging with aunties’ panties and that not really being the sort of thing to inspire the next generation of fire fighters. The audience went quiet and put their pants back in their handbags. I kind of figured I’d said something wrong but then Dead made everyone laugh by saying the place was not so much thronging as ‘thonging’ and said that must be because of all the ‘thinging’ at the Mama Mia concert and then Melt said there would be a chance to really thing a thong later when the real surprise guest, some Latin bloke called Hooleyegg Glazing-Arse arrived. The aunties cooed and took their pants back out their handbags at that and we settled down to the rest of the show.

The rest of the show was weird. Melt confided that now she is getting older (she’s been twenty six for the past seven years I think) she has realised that many women need to think about their body parts ‘going south’. The aunties looked worried so I reassured them that it would only be for the winter and like the swallows whatever body parts Melt was talking about would fly back next summer. But Melt ignored me and produced her brand new book from under the table. It was called “Under The Bread Knife: how to combine cosmetic surgery with home baking and get more dumpling for less dough.”

Melt had cleverly seen a DIY niche in the beauty market. My favourite picture was the woman who wanted a ‘fuller mouth’ so had inserted the squirty cream nozzle into her lip. Melt said no one would be able to tell that viewers hadn’t had this done in an expensive Harley Street Clinic. But I said the next person who got the squirty cream out the fridge would see the tell tale lip marks and told the children watching at home always to wash the nozzle before having a sneaky squirt. I wondered what children watching at home would think if their aunties or mummys did this with the squirty cream and thought I’d better point out that a) kids might not recognise their aunties or mummys; b) the squirty cream nozzle would be quite disgusting; and c) there might not be any squirty cream left anyway unless their aunties or mummys accidentally bit their lip and that would really be disgusting.

Melt’s leg suddenly slipped off her stool and accidentally kicked mine from underneath me. I don’t think she liked me much because she didn’t say sorry. But that might have been because the producer told her to announce that Hooleyegg Glazing-Arse was ready to sing. The aunties cheered and the place erupted with pants flying out of handbags. I must say he was very handsome. Dead was looking quite jealous so I told him, I bet he looked that handsome when he was young too. I don’t think Dead liked that at all because I’d only just climbed back on my stool when his leg slipped off his and kicked me off again. It was ok though, I told him my great Grandad also suffered from gout so I knew how painful it was. Hooleyegg Glazing-Arse started singing and the aunties started rubbing their HRT patches and it must have been the HRT in the air that really set off Dead’s gout because his leg flew out again and I was kicked right out of the studio.

It was a funny sort of Watch With Carer programme. I guess it might have inspired children but to what? To be pretty plastic or ancient orange? There were no fire-fighting poles, no tractors, no get along gang. Lunchtime telly for kids and their carers? It’s just pants.

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