25 YEAR OLD: Is it expensive, your broadband?
35 Y/O: I'd say. But I do get 2 gigabytes of downloads per month.
25: What? I'd commit suicide if 2 gigabytes is all I could have. I'd use that in an afternoon.
00:39
35 Y/O: They gave me a new computer in work. 2 gigabytes a ram. Laptop. Dell. No CD burner, only reader.
25 YEAR OLD: What? No burner? Shit. It's like living in Auschwitz!
01:10
 |
| They come like a hurricane, spitting fire, 1940 |
09:00
1940 WWII: RAF declares victory in Battle of Britain air conflict as hundreds of Luftwaffe aircraft raiding London are shot down
10:10 Every person has a unique tongue print.
10:11
Blondes away! There's a lot of tic-tac smuggling going on around here - sometimes that's a good idea, a very good idea, sometimes it's not, very not.
16:00
BSML gets on my wick because it's all over the shop. Must not abide in the place of ignorance. Call upon the warrior spirit.
22:45
Pat Plank still has yet to master the fine art of making a call from within the medium of television. A viewer has won a competition, say, a holiday. Time to award them the prize live on TV. We wait in anticipation for him to pick up the impossibly small designer-phone receiver.
He stands up, nobody knows why. Tension rises. Cameras whizz around on dollys in an unprecedented new studio style, bumping into walls, bumping into each other, knocking over the set. We cut to a shot of the back of the Late Late Show set with its scaffolding pylons where a dollying camera shudders to a halt. The director cuts to a shaky mid-shot of Pat Poised in full flight. He's gaining, big time, who isn't right? At least he has his jacket buttoned over. Silently, speechlessly, endlessly, he flicks and flitters on the buttons and silently, painfully we watch. The tone rings. It rings again. In terms of creating suspense, it’s hardly Hitchcock now is it? Smooth and sophisticated it ain't.
22:59
Jolly good show, chaps, I've told the Prime Minister.
23:05
Following an entertaining piece of light entertainment by a charming cabaret contortionist-clown with pierced nipples, Pat Pissing drops the mood back to the state of modern Ireland. He is tormenting a bereaved mother (and the audience) in an item about street violence. Her son was battered on the street, you see, bled to death in the hall door at home and she buried him yesterday as Pat constantly fucking reminds her. That’s the why she’s on the telly. On Friday night. Because butchers.
Set upon he was, 30 years old. Buying coffins they were. Unsolved crime. They're all crying. I feel like crying. Crying because the sound is so dreadfully bad in the studio, I can only hear sniffling. Pat-ethic is swilling for pity and for pat-hos. The segment is endless. It should be produced out of him. Someone should fix the sound.
Hah?
FIX. The. SOUND!
