TOWIE- The Only Way Is… Execution??

Last night’s TV line-up was particularly paltry, so I was forced to look through the depressing pile of piss I had stored in my Sky Plus planner, much like a weary and disillusioned eagle picking through a turd-carcass.

Through lack of anything better to choose, I opted for Bouncers, a TV programme made BY Sun Bingo enthusiasts, FOR Sun Bingo enthusiasts. The premise of the programme follows the lives of nightclub bouncers working in the town of Newport, Wales (a bit like Guantanamo Bay meets Butlins, but shitter and more violent), highlighting the difficulties they face daily working in a town that holds the world record for ‘most Jeremy Kyle guests to come from a single shithole’. The concept bypassed the behaviour expected by drunk, inebriated, toothless morons, but not before mooning it and calling it a ‘fucking slag’, settling straight into a place where using the pub toilets to multi-task in the art of similtanaeously excreating while fellating a fellow nightclub attendee (true story) is socially acceptable.

After one nightclub goer got too drunk to exist in the realm of normality, she was lifted by a bouncer, slung over his shoulder and placed outside in the care of her burly lesbian partner- after which, the bouncer discovered that she had pissed all over his uniform mid-removal. The burly lesbian was greatly amused by this and asked to smell his hands after he tried to wipe himself clean of, let’s face it, urine soaked chylamidia juice. And these are the people who actually get in to the nightclubs of Newport- one unlucky scumbag was refused entry due to not being a member… of the human race.

So you can imagine that after watching this, I was mildly happy to escape to the throes of irony-incomprehenders TOWIE. Unbelievably, the programme has managed to deteriorate from previous series of mild giggling, awkward bromances and shameless self-promotion to become 45 minutes of watching the most undeserving bunch of wankers sit on corner sofas from the DFS sale, play with mini-dogs and generally whine about very little. Oh and opening the same shop over and fucking well over again.

Last night’s episode chronicled the aftermath of Gemma’s fake party in which the whole cast got together to congratulate themselves for being the largest bunch of unlikable wankers known to man, which was a perfect opportunity for the rest of the world to set fire to the building, killing the cast and re-inventing the show as a more entertaining concept of staring at a blank screen. At least the acting would be better. Gemma, a younger, less vivacious Pat Butcher is the only person that I can summon up the empathy to vaguely like of the whole cast- and even then I would happily shoot her point blank in the face and use her ample body for firewood- but unfortunately, she was not-very-believably hungover and spent the entire episode behind a sea of poor excuses for fishwives listening to a clairvoyant tell them about their lives when no-one had the fucking wit to realise that the clairvoyant could have just watched the show prior to showing up- the fact that Lydia is going out with someone who like pies is common fucking knowledge- you pack of moronic dickheads. Hilariously though, the clairvoyant failed miserably to conjour up any accurancy in her reading, proving that people won’t watch the show even when you pay them. Thankfully, Alan-Carr-in-drag bastard tramp Debbie wasn’t invited, which is great news for my TV as I have the overwhelming urge to fuck it out the window every time her whiny tones dampen my ears.

The rest of the show was peppered with scenes of Lauren Pope and Michael Jackson re-incarnation Chloe Sims, who decide that an appropriate response to the prospect of the potential health risks posed by their current silicone implants is to get new, bigger implants. Thankfully, human Ken doll Joey Essex, complete with plastic nub where genetalia should be, dominated the rest of the programme with his ongoing quest to make the phrase ‘salty potato’ happen. Give it up Joey, your popularity is fading quicker than the thigh material of Arg’s jeans, you fucking twatty man-child bastard.

Right, I’m off to Newport with my burly lesbian partner and a full bladder. See you on Monday.

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