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What’s Eating Mo Farah
By Double European Gold Medal Winner Mo Farah
Hampton Court flower show
Now I know this is England and flower gardens are a English as warm beer and shit summers but honestly, is there any need to devote an entire weeks telly to this middle class drivel. The only highlight was when the young gardener of the year was showing the beeb around his garden and the presenter asked him if he’d ever seen Scum.
Living With Brucie
The nations favourite game show host let us into his secret life as we discovered tried to discover what makes him tick and why the fuck a former Miss World married the old dodderer. Well that’s pretty obvious but fair play to Bruce, if I’m 100 and can get a bint like his I defo would.
Bruce stays young by going through a yoga routine every morning then hitting the links all afternoon before catching 40 winks. The only interesting part of the doc was when one day Bruce missed his little nap and was really stroppy, taking it out on a security guard at his gated community in Puerto Rico, who miss took him for some no mark. He harped on about how leaving the showbiz life wouldn’t affect him but he treated every little scene as if he were still on a game show.
In these documentries, you’re always hoping for an angle that makes the protagonist look like a twat, like Louie Theroux always does but Bruce was too much of a control freak to let you really see into his world. For instance, I wanted to know if and indeed how Bruce managed to slot his ace wife, and when he did what were his climaxes like? Did the yoga still make him spoo like a champion or is like two black board dusters getting banged together? The nation needs to know…
Stealing the idea from the Nescafe adverts of yesteryore, these annoyingly right episodes make me puke. Now they have a cliff hanger and you, yes you the public can vote on what happens next. I checked the website and there’s no option for abortion.
St Johns Market
The land that time forgot, don’t know why I ended up there but I did and it was like stepping back into 1982. Same scabby Asians stalls selling scabby knock offs of whatever’s de riguer with ‘da yoof, shitty butchers with crusty meat hanging up while he the butcher tries to entice you in with his microphone. I swear there were terydanchels soaring around the roof waiting to pounce on one of the 50 cobblers/key cutting booths.
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