| Thursday, February 27, 2003 |
 | Awaking early, and with the tiniest smidgeon of a hangover, I get a call telling me that the meeting I was up in order to make had been cancelled. But that's all cool because, as my boss pointed out, it meant I could check out the state of the art on shitty early morning televison, RI:SE. The last time I had confronted this shoggoth of breakfast time evil had been last May Day, when the combination of unexamined Evening Standard thinking ("So, you're going to be cycling slowly to work along with other cyclists to impede traffic and protest at the lack of cyclepaths in London - do you expect to kill any policemen?") and sheer ineptitude made me bleed from new and exciting orifices.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He interviews me, stuttering, corpsing, choking.
All of which meant that all I could stomach was five minutes, in which I finally got to see what Tom was so excited about in the pixielike Scots form of Fame Academy's Ainslie. I don't see it myself, I have to say.
I had the strange fortune to see the Fame Academy final (and no other part of it previously) in the company of a teenaged girl, which reminded me that these thing matter, God damn it. It's too easy to lose sight of that simple but salient fact with the endless pressures of daily life. Then again, my next foray into reality TV sent me shrieking into the woods with the image of the one from The Salon who resembles a bewigged attempt to breed the Mekon out of a local MP prevailing upon an innocent victim to submit to the back, crack and sack wax.
I have bad luck with mass media. What can I tell you? What I can tell you is that I was, however, surprised and delighted to find that at least this section was being hosted by light entertainment godesses Mel and Sue. All hail!
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