2007 - Dawn of the Dumb

  Dawn of the Dumb

  by Charlie Brooker

  (2007)

  * * *

  Polite, pensive, mature, reserved…Charlie Brooker is none of these things and less. Rude, unhinged, outrageous, and above all funny, “Dawn of the Dumb” is essential reading for anyone with a brain and a spinal cord. And hands for turning the pages. Picking up where his hilarious “Screen Burn” left off, “Dawn of the Dumb” collects the best of Charlie Brooker’s recent TV writing, together with uproarious spleen-venting diatribes on a range of non-televisual subjects—tackling everything from David Cameron to human hair.

  PROLOGUE

  Towards the end of 2004, during the US election, I wrote a review of the televised Presidential debates which got me into a bit of trouble.

  The dumb show

  [23 October 2004]

  Heady times. The US election draws ever nearer, and while the rest of the world bangs its head against the floorboards screaming ‘Please God, not Bush!’, the candidates clash head to head in a series of live televised debates. It’s a bit like American Idol, but with terrifying global ramifications. You’ve got to laugh.

  Or have you? Have you seen the debates? I urge you to do so. The exemplary BBC News website hosts unexpurgated streaming footage of all the recent debates, plus clips from previous encounters, through Reagan and Carter, all the way back to Nixon versus JFK.

  Watching Bush v. Kerry, two things immediately strike you. First, the opening explanation of the rules makes the whole thing feel like a Radio 4 parlour game. And second, George W. Bush is…well, he’s…Jesus, where do you start?

  The internet’s abuzz with speculation that Bush has been wearing a wire, receiving help from some off-stage lackey. Screen grabs appearing to show a mysterious bulge in the centre of his back are being traded like Top Trumps. Prior to seeing the debate footage, I regarded this with healthy scepticism: the whole ‘wire’ scandal was just wishful thinking on behalf of some amateur Michael Moores, I figured. And then I watched the footage.

  Quite frankly, the man’s either wired or mad. If it’s the former, he should be flung out of office: tarred, feathered and kicked in the nuts. And if it’s the latter, his behaviour goes beyond strange, and heads toward terrifying. He looks like he’s listening to something we can’t hear. He blinks, he mumbles, he lets a sentence trail off, starts a new one, then reverts back to whatever he was saying in the first place. Each time he recalls a statistic (either from memory or the voice in his head), he flashes us a dumb little smile, like a toddler proudly showing off its first bowel movement. Forgive me for employing the language of the playground, but the man’s a tool.

  So I sit there and I watch this and I start scratching my head, because I’m trying to work out why Bush is afforded any kind of credence or respect whatsoever in his native country. His performance is so transparently bizarre, so feeble and stumbling, it’s a miracle he wasn’t laughed off the stage. And then I start hunting around the internet, looking to see what the US media made of the whole ‘wire’ debate. And they just let it die. They mentioned it in passing, called it a wacko conspiracy theory and moved on.

  Yet whether it turns out to be true or not, right now it’s certainly plausible—even if you discount the bulge photos and simply watch the president’s ridiculous smirking face. Perhaps he isn’t wired. Perhaps he’s just gone gaga. If you don’t ask the questions, you’ll never know the truth.

  The silence is all the more troubling since in the past the US news media has had no problem at all covering other wacko conspiracy theories, ones with far less evidence to support them. (For infuriating confirmation of this, watch the second part of the must-see documentary series The Power of Nightmares (BBC2) and witness the absurd hounding of Bill Clinton over the Whitewater and Vince Foster non-scandals.)

  Throughout the debate, John Kerry, for his part, looks and sounds a bit like a haunted tree. But at least he’s not a lying, sniggering, drink-driving, selfish, reckless, ignorant, dangerous, backward, drooling, twitching, blinking, mouse-faced little cheat. And besides, in a fight between a tree and a bush, I know who I’d favour.

  On 2 November, the entire civilised world will be praying, praying Bush loses. And sod’s law dictates he’ll probably win, thereby disproving the existence of God once and for all. The world will endure four more years of idiocy, arrogance and unwarranted bloodshed, with no benevolent deity to watch over and save us…

  That’s not where the column originally ended. No. It ended with a variant on the old ‘Guy Fawkes, where are you now that we need you?’ graffiti gag. It’s an old, albeit tasteless joke that’s appeared many times before—on soldiers’helmets during the Vietnam war, and on bumper stickers during the Clinton years, to name but two examples.

  Unfortunately, in this case, it also appeared on the globally accessible Guardian website, where the usual context of the Screen Burn column—i.e. a TV preview page in an AS ENTERTAINMENT SUPPLEMENT—wasn’t clear, especially to overseas readers, who could be forgiven for mistaking it for a ‘serious’ op-ed article. End result: an old joke was interpreted by some as an earnest call for assassination, including the Drudge Report, which ran it as a headline.

  This didn’t do the Guardian’s reputation any favours—nor mine, come to that (although in retrospect I’m mainly embarrassed I was giving the daft ‘Bush was wired’ conspiracy some serious consideration). The article was removed and replaced with a (sincere) apology for any offence caused. But, encouraged by a series of right-wing websites, outraged emails flooded in, hundreds of them: some abusive, some baffling, and some downright hair-raising. Here’s a random sampling:

  ‘We have sent your name to the FBI and Secret Service along with a copy of your wonderful article. Death threats are punishable and I am sure we can extradite you if need be since you are an American.’

  ‘Bush will go down in history as one of the greatest presidents ever…while your name will be like a drop of water lost in the ocean…NOTHING.’

  ‘I hope you get jail time…I am complaining to your embassies, businesses that advertise with anyone who consorts with you, and our law enforcement over this matter. Concerned American Citizen.’

  ‘You have been reported to the Secret Service and I have urged that you be placed under arrest upon any entry to our country.’

  ‘We don’t give a flying fuck what you stupid Brits think. There was a reason we kicked your ass in the Revolution…you’re all just a bunch of fucking sissy asses. I can’t wait to watch as you and the rest of the European faggots turn into Third World countries that you all aspire to.’

  ‘May those in your life survive under the curse you wish for others. Let them live long miserable lives. I look forward to reading your obituary on the back page of a paper sooner than later…You deserve the severest punishment that can be meted out. May the queen be soon rid of scum like you.’

  ‘Come on over for a nice visit to the US. Let me know where you’ll be, and I’ll come and beat you to death.’

  ‘Just to let you know I have forwarded your article to the US secret service who take these threats seriously. I can assure you that you will now be on the Homeland Security watch list. You can look forward to being hassled at every airport in the world from now on…Enjoy your life.’

  ‘Die of AIDS, scumbag.’

  ‘Look, shitface, I suggest you never try to come to the US…You will be under constant surveillance by the Secret Service should our incompetent immigration agents even let you slip in. Stay home and fuck your mother—and the horse she rode in on. Don’t show your cretinous face here, scumbag. Many of us pack, you know. And the Tony Martin case would not happen here since we are not the decadent country England has become und
er the Guardianship of crypto-Communists. I can’t picture twelve good men and true convicting any American for blowing you away.’

  ‘Do you remember Jill Dando? And she was innocent! Have a care, cretin.’

  ‘Your 9/11 is coming soon. We both know it. I’ll be sure to telephone you when it happens and see if you’ve been personally affected. I can only hope.’

  ‘Watch your back.’

  And so on. And so on. Laughable now, but seriously disturbing at the time, especially given the sheer weight of complaints and death threats.

  Later, I realised this is how modern campaigning works: partisan websites whip up a storm of controversy (wilfully misinterpreting the facts if necessary), then encourage people to email in their thousands. It’s intimidation. And it works: initially, at least. But in the long run, it’s an impotent howl: an angry, protracted bovine hoot. The Secret Service never contacted me. They have better things to do. Nor did the authorities place me on any sinister ‘list’: I’ve visited the USA several times since, had no trouble obtaining a visa or entering the country, and had a wonderful time while I was there. In fact, every American I’ve ever met in the flesh, at home or abroad, has been delightful.

  But the neo-cons with email accounts? Bleh.

  CHAPTER ONE

  In which Nicky Campbell is mistaken for the Antichrist, John McCririck is likened to a womble, and Sir Alan Sugar makes his debut.

  Dripping with menace

  [20 November 2004]

  Nicky Campbell: what’s that all about then? If Judge Dredd burst in and ordered you to write down a list of all the household names in Britain, chances are you’d forget to include him. Campbell hovers somewhere just outside the mind’s field of vision, yet in reality he’s never far from eye or ear shot. So why doesn’t he stick in your head?

  Because he’s the Antichrist, that’s why. Now this is just a theory, coupled to an opinion, trundled into battle on the back of a vague feeling…but I reckon Nicky Campbell might be the most evil man in the universe. There’s no evidence to support this, but come on—there’s just something about him, isn’t there?

  Stare into his eyes and you’ll be chilled to the core by the cavernous hollow within. They say true evil is fundamentally banal: that the wickedest serial killers operate unnoticed thanks to their blank, unremarkable nature. Campbell’s fronted everything from Wheel of Fortune to Panorama, from Radio 1 to Radio 5, and yet you’d forgotten all about him, hadn’t you? Doesn’t that say something?

  If you don’t believe me, check out his regular performances on Watchdog (BBC1), which he hosts in the style of a man linking stories in a 19705 portmanteau horror movie. It’s screamingly over-the-top, yet passes without comment. Dripping with menace, he stares straight down the lens, delivering lines about fly-by-night timeshare companies as though discussing the Third Reich. He’s got to be taking the piss. Perhaps the whole tiling’s an arch joke, devised for his own amusement. Well, I’m not laughing. No. I’m hearing the theme from The Omen looping endlessly in my head.

  Do you think Campbell really gives a toss about any of the issues raised during the average edition of Watchdog? I certainly don’t, and I’m a Quaker, for pity’s sake. It’s virtually impossible to care about the kind of whingeing shitsacks on display here. They’re idiots: idiots who express genuine surprise when the diamond ring they bought for tuppence from a satellite shopping channel turns out not to be worth £1,300 after all: idiots who jerk with indignant rage when the knock-off Finding Nemo cuddly toy they purchased in dumb faith from a ramshackle pound shop falls apart at the seams, revealing a collection of rusty metal shards that scrape their children’s eyes out.

  And they’re ugly. Unbelievably ugly. Hideous, puffy-eyed, bloated, blotchy-faced organisms with dry hair and lips as thick as forearms, droning away in their dull, grotty voices—droning and whining and grousing about the petty injustice of it all, in the vain belief anyone else gives a toss. If they really want to complain about something worthwhile, they should stand on top of a mountain waving an angry fist heavenward, loudly demanding to be told why God saw fit to curse them with a face like John Merrick’s ballbag.

  Still, as far as these clueless, dribbling sea cows are concerned, Campbell’s a knight in shining armour, galloping into combat on their behalf in the show’s most uncomfortable section—the bit where a shifting, blushing, dry-mouthed company spokesman gets an over-the-top grilling. Campbell seems to secretly relish these encounters—as well he might, being the Prince of Darkness. (Sometimes co-presenter Julia Bradbury does the honours—although since she possesses an indefinable quality that makes you suspect she’s probably quite mucky in the bedroom, her interviews are less sinister and more like a sexually charged pre-shag tiff between two tipsy adulterers.)

  I could go on about Watchdogtill the cows start texting to say they’re on their way home—I could discuss the confused researchers milling about in the background trying to look busy, or the tortuously contrived links in Paul Heiney’s VT reports—but really, the most important thing is to draw your attention to Nicky Campbell’s hilarious weekly performance, which I urge you to tune in and savour for yourselves. No, really, it’s funny.

  Just don’t stare into his eyes for too long, or God knows what might happen.

  Cannibal Holocaust

  [27 November 2004]

  Oh, good Lord! It’s unbelievable. It’s horrible. I can’t understand the reason for such cruelty!’

  That’s a quote from Cannibal Holocaust (1980), the most sickening and notorious video nasty ever made. I haven’t checked the yuletide schedule yet, but the chances ITV are showing it at four o’clock on Christmas Day are pretty slim, to be honest.

  I’m a Celebrity…Get Me Out of Here! (ITV1), on the other hand—that’s hearty primetime fare. Yet the similarities between this and Cannibal Holocaust are striking. In each, a group of naive media types ventures into the jungle in an attempt to raise their profiles, then rapidly descend into lunacy and infighting. Both groups must eat disgusting things to survive, both get tortured for entertainment, and both are ultimately gobbled up and flushed away. Cannibal Holocaust doesn’t cut away to a rubbish First Choice holidays blipvert every 19 seconds, but apart from that, they’re basically identical.

  Anyway, who’s in the cast? Of I’m a Celebrity, that is. Well?

  First up, former All Saint Natalie Appleton, who spent the first 48 hours snivelling and squealing. This is Natalie’s fourth stab at fame. First there was All Saints, then a role in a Dave Stewart movie (I’ve looked it up on the internet: apparently she played a pair of naked tits) and then, in 2003, a musical comeback successful enough to put her where she is today—in the outback, wiping her arse with leaves. Have you seen the size of this woman’s ears? Each time she ties her hair back, bingo—it’s Topo Gigio, the Italian puppet mouse (Google the name. See?).

  Then there’s Joe Pasquale, better known across the land as Oh God Turn Over I Can’t Stand Him. Actually that’s unfair: he’s coming across as a genuinely likeable man, and is my favourite to win. Bear in mind I’m writing this on the morning of Tuesday 23 November—so if he’s started whistling Nazi anthems and kicking wombats in the face by the time you read this, ignore everything I just said.

  The decision to recruit badger-haired nobody Fran Cosgrave was initially baffling, because it’s the first time they’ve included someone who’s less famous than, say, your local GP. But on reflection, I think it’s a bit of cunning philanthropy on ITV’s part. Anyone with more than three friends is better known than he is, which means, thanks to Fran Cosgrove, we’re all celebrities now—and we’ll remain celebrities long after he’s slunk back to obscurity (hey Fran, Obscurity would be a great name for a club).

  For some reason, Antonio Fargas has to walk around with ‘Huggy Bear’ printed on his T-shirt, instead of his actual name. Presumably this is to help thick viewers remember who he is, but it’s a touch demeaning because the others don’t get the same treatment. It’d be far e
asier to identify Nancy Sorrell if she simply walked around with ‘Vie Reeves’s Wife’ on her back; Sophie Anderton could be labelled ‘Cokey Model’, Brian Harvey ‘El? Chav’, and Sheila Fergu-son ‘Forget It’. Then there’s Janet Street-Porter (‘Shagged Normski’), a cheery media tyrant famous for sounding like the cat from the old Charley Says public information cartoon.

  Finally, national whipping-boy and former royal butler Paul Burrell (‘My Rock’)—facially, a cross between Jamie Oliver and a simpering broad bean.

  Apparently the nation is on tenterhooks, eager for whatever regal gossip he’ll spill. The only question I’m interested in hearing him answer is: ‘Did you ever get to see Diana’s bum—perhaps just accidentally, and only for a second—but did you?’ Bet he did.

  Anyway, them’s the inmates—at the time of writing they’re yet to undergo any real torture, just a bit of foreplay in which Fran was staked to the ground while bugs crawled round his privates. Doubtless the real horror’s to come. I’ll leave you with a quote from Cannibal Ferox, another video nasty with disturbing I’m a Celebrity overtones: ‘They castrated him with a machete and then they…they ate his genitals!’ And to think, he only won three bushtucker stars for the trouble.

  I love Frann he is wel fit

  [4 December 2004]

  So another I’m a Celebrity…Get Me Out of Here! (ITV) scuttles to a conclusion, and what have we learned, fourth time around? Absolutely nothing, except that Natalie Appleton should’ve been forced to complete her trials with a cattle prod. Is this the frailest woman in Britain? She’s like a heroine in a Victorian novel: a pale delicate flower, weakened by years of indulgence and pampering, who faints and dies of consumption if she so much as stubs a toe, or shakes hands with a beggar, or one of the footmen accidentally blows off in another wing of the mansion.