Monday, 12 July 2010

The Emmerdale Solution

First a confession: I am a casual Radio 4 listener. That is not to say that I lounge around on bean bags in a silk smoking jacket whilst Sandi Toksvig introduces Excess Baggage. Rather, I tune in on a semi-regular basis and catch whatever happens to be on at the time. Since this tends to happen on a Thursday evening as I toil southwards down the M11, I often end up catching the end of the 6:30 comedy show, the entirety of Front Row with wet-lipped arts correspondent Mark Lawson, and of course, The Archers. And herein lies our subject for today.

Imagine that Eastenders or Coronation Street is on the telly. Now imagine closing your eyes and listening to it for however long it lasts. No peeking – just listen. Can you tell what’s going on? Do you know who’s who? Now let’s take things one step further, and imagine that you only listen to one episode in seven. Would the story not be a little difficult to follow?

Well of course it would, you say. What kind of fool deliberately hampers their enjoyment of gritty Cockney/Manc urban drama by subtracting the pictures and missing out six sevenths of the episodes? Such a reckless fool could not possibly hope to comprehend a whit of the storyline, nor identify the score or so characters featured from their voice alone.

And yet that is exactly my experience of The Archers. I listen to it once a week in my car for twelve and a half minutes, trying to remember who’s who and trying to work out what on earth’s going on. Matt’s out of prison? Sid’s dead? Pip’s broken up with her useless boyfriend? When did that happen? It’s a nightmare for the causal listener such as myself, and in my opinion is a real stumbling block to attracting a greater audience. Where’s the user friendliness here? If The Archers were a home computer it would doubtless be a PC, not a Mac. What’s needed is a radical rethink of the entire show, if its listener-base is ever to grow.

Fortunately I’m on hand to propose a threefold solution which will propel The Archers into the twenty-first century - the right Archers for the right future, to paraphrase Dr Josef Mengele in The Boys From Brazil:

1) Previously on…
The first thirty seconds of every episode will start with a recap of recent events, much in the style of Lost or Battlestar Galactica. This will bring casual audience members instantly up to date and astute listeners will be able to deduce which characters and storylines are likely to feature in the following twelve minutes, thus preparing them mentally and emotionally. Obviously the ‘Previously on…’ voiceover would have to be appropriate to and respectful of the rural setting, so I propose Justin Lee Collins.

2) Trim the fatMore importantly, the sheer number of characters needs to be reduced, mainly because I just can’t figure out who’s who. All we have to go on are their voices, and frankly too many of them sound the same. Now, without recourse to Wikipedia, I will genuinely attempt to list all the current characters, to give you some illustration of the problem:
Middle Aged Man – he might be called Brian. There are several Brians, some of whom are called David or Kenton. He is a sort of farmer or business man. He often talks about poly-tunnels.
Middle Aged Woman – a wife of generic accent. She may be called Shula. There are older versions of her too.
Geordie Mum – she is called Ruth and sounds perpetually piggin’ miserable.
Bumpkin Bloke – Eddie Grundy. He has younger backups of himself called Edward, Ed, Tedwin and Nedbert. He has a foin rustic aczent.
Bumpkin Bird – she is called Clarrie. She runs some sort of farming affair with the help of a clone Bumpkin Bird whose name escapes me. Let’s call her Fanny.
Bumpkin Grandpa – Old Joe Grundy and some other straw-chewer with a jowly old voice that sounds like he gargles in cider after every meal.
Absurdly Posh Woman – Mrs Snell? Mrs Mangel? Margo Ledbetter? Ridiculously plummy-voiced caricature left over from the cast of Duty Free.
Wheeler-Dealer – he is called Matt. His character and voice were stolen from Coronation Street’s Mike Baldwin, and he refuses to give them back.
A girl - her name is Pip and/or Fizz. This is not helpful.

That’s it as far as I can tell. There may be variants and sub-classifications, but those of you with a better knowledge of the cast than I will probably be able to populate several of the above categories with more than one character. This is not good news for the casual listener. And yes, I am aware that occasionally Scotch or Oirish characters do crop up, but the vast majority of the cast fall into one of the over-populated English-accented vocal groupings of posh/normal/bumpkin, and thus confusion reigns supreme, much as the simian will one day reign over man, those damned dirty apes. Ahem.

So, a cull is required, one that will reduce the cast surplus such that there will remain only one character per voice, thus eliminating listener recognition difficulty at a stroke. I propose to implement this reduction via a new storyline introducing the development of the Borchester nuclear waste reprocessing plant. Wheeler-Dealer and a Brian will invest heavily in the project of course, and various Bumpkins and Girls will find employment there, in close proximity to highly unstable fissile materials. Listener interest will be piqued over a period of about a month, with hints of corner cutting and insufficient shielding. Disgruntled employees will mutter darkly into their beers in the snug of The Bull, and an Absurdly Posh Woman will start a leaflet campaign to Keep Ambridge Unatomic.

Events will come to a head with a much heralded double-length Friday night episode, wherein the oafish Bumpkin Bloke disastrously hooks up his overflowing silage truck to the coolant intake valve of the nuclear waste reprocessing plant, resulting in a catastrophic meltdown event that engulfs Ambridge in a low-yield atomic discharge. Cue the theme tune, abruptly drowned out by static and the sound of combusting cows.

This is known in the media as an Emmerdale Solution, so-called for the apocalyptic ‘plane crash’ storyline in 1993 which killed off four of the main characters as well as numerous sheep. They actually show you the sheep burning. Now that’s what I call a teatime drama.

Needless to say the Ambridge Nuclear Event storyline will be extensively teased and trailed in the weeks leading up to the big bang itself, culminating in a striking Radio Times cover depicting an ominous mushroom-shaped formation over Brookfield Farm. Listening figures cannot fail to rise. Who will live? Who will die? Who will be reduced to a blackened soot outline on the front door of the eternally-doomed post office? Only one thing will be certain – when the spluttering, charred, moderately irradiated survivors crawl free of the ruins of Ambridge’s rural idyll, there will only be one Middle Aged Man called Brian. And with a cast reduced to a manageable and vocally distinct line-up, listener recognition will be assured.

3) The FalloutNaturally, the Ambridge Nuclear Event will attract a massive audience, but the revamp doesn’t end there, oh no indeed. Having pared the cast down to one Bumpkin Bird, one Middle Aged Woman and so forth, we can proceed to introduce new characters with their own unique sounds, and how better to seamlessly slip them in than by developing a ‘fallout’ storyline, wherein the mutagenic effects of the widespread atomic waste begin to manifest themselves?

We begin slowly enough by altering the background sound effects of some of the livestock, gradually replacing ‘Standard Sheep Sounds 1- 5’ with digitally enhanced baaing. Alert listeners will start to notice patterns of phonemes and primitive word groups emerging from the new-born lambs at Home Farm, leading up to the shocking episode when the Geordie Mum hears a peculiarly tremulous version of O Little Town Of Bethlehem being sung on Christmas Eve, and opens her front door only to be confronted by a small choir of mutated man-lambs rearing up on their hind legs. In time, one of the flock, named Ewan, will take his place in the cast as the spokes-ovine of the newly formed Ambridge Woolpersons Collective, and will begin a troubled romance with the Girl.

Parallel plotline will be developed with pigs, cattle and maybe horses, introducing several new hooved characters into the mix, including Graham, 'a charming young boar with a head for agribusiness', and the Pettifers, 'a husband and wife pair of Herefords who just can’t seem to agree on anything'.

Finally, in a bizarre genetic twist of the airwaves, we reveal that the human population of Ambridge has itself been affected by the fallout, resulting in a number of incredible physical transmogrifications. At first, Eddie puts Clarrie’s new grass-chewing habit down to nerves over the fate of their new cheese-making enterprise. But when a routine check-up at the doctors reveals that she has grown three extra stomachs and has begun emitting methane at a prodigious rate, he can no longer put it down to in-breeding, and must come to terms with the fact that his wife has become a cow-woman. This leads to a number of heartbreaking scenes for the Grundys, as this sample dialogue shows:

Eddie: Clarrie? Where are you love? It’s getting dark.
Eddie: Oh c’mon, love, you’ll be cold out here in the field all noight.
Nedbert: Is that ‘er over there, Dad?
Clarrie: Oh Eddie, Oi don’t want you seeing me loik this. Moo.
Eddie: Now don’t you worry about that, moi love. Us Grundys have got to stick together, ain’t we?
Clarrie: But Eddie, look at me, Oi’m a big ol’cow.
Nedbert (whispering): She’s roight Dad, she is a bloody cow. Look at the size of them udders.
Eddie (whispering): Don’t you go talking about your mother loik that.
Eddie: C’mon Clarrie love, we’ve been through worse than this. Remember when Oi was done for selling condemned meat or when Joe clubbed his ferrets to death? Just coz you’ve developed a loiking for chewing the cud’s no need to go getting all dramatical on us. You’re still moi wife, Clarrie Grundy.
Clarrie: Oh Joe! Moo.
Eddie: Oh Clarrie!
Nedbert: Shouldn’t we be getting her off to the milking shed, Dad?

Now that’s the sort of quality real-life drama the entire nation will be tuning into (on digital, online and on 92 – 95 FM).

I will also be getting rid of the stupid French accordion version of the theme tune from the Sunday omnibus.

Sunday, 4 July 2010

Rifled Buttocks

Long-time readers will already be aware of my many apparel-based grievances, such as my blood-sucking shoes and those ever-disappointing handbags, but today I’d like to discuss an issue that both annoys and intrigues me; that of the rifled buttocks.

This phenomenon only occurs when wearing a tightish skirt with little or none of the slidey slippage sewn within that I now realise is vital to the successful snug-skirt wearer. What happens, each and every time, is that the damned thing starts to revolve around my bottom in a clockwise direction as soon as I walk. Well, it’s clockwise to my point of view – it depends on where you’re observing the motion from, I suppose. I have the bird’s-eye view of course. Should anyone manage the rare feat of manoeuvring themselves into a position where said motion appears to be anti-clockwise from their perspective, very well done to them, but prepare for a slap licketty-split.

Anyhoo, back the unwelcome revolution of the aforementioned. I swear I can’t take more than twelve steps before the seams have crawled round to the left and the splitty bit at the back is halfway round my right leg. It’s always the same clockwise direction without fail, though for all I know it would be anti-clockwise were I to cross the Equator. God knows what would happen were I to straddle the Equator. One dreads to speculate.

Doubtless this consistent right-to-left activity is a result of my extreme rightiness, by which I mean a physical bias towards overdevelopment on my right hand side, not a worrying tendency towards fascism, though some would maintain I’m guilty of that too. For example, you may recall a previous reference to my long right arm, which juts out from jacket- and coat sleeves a good inch and a half further than my left; my hairier right leg (no sniggers, please) which requires rather more attention from Ma Venus than the left; and my larger right bosom, which is particularly curious given that my chestal area is largely the work of a third party who clearly decided it was best to maintain my natural starboard-side freakishness. Thanks Doctor Boob. No, really.

But back to my buttocks and the amazing revolving skirt. It occurs to me that the only possible reason for this phenomenon is that my buttocks and upper thighs are in some way rifled, possibly with tiny hairs invisible to the naked eye that spiral around the body in such a way as to create a helical ‘garment super-highway’ that any sufficiently tight item of bottom-clothing is compelled to follow. It further occurs to me that in the right circumstances therefore, this rifling effect of my buttocks could project a skirt further and more accurately than any smoothbore backside, much in the same way that rifles are themselves more effective than less sophisticated muskets.

Of course, such an experiment would require that my body be somehow elevated and tilted upon a special kind of gimballed tripod so that my lower area could be aimed properly, whilst simultaneously enabling the requisite ambulatory motion necessary to generate the necessary gyroscopic effect. Furthermore, some sort of linear force would be required to provide the forward projection with sufficient velocity, but modesty of course forbids me from suggesting any obvious source of propulsion.

The practical applications of the Rifled Buttock Skirt Launcher continue to elude me for the moment, though I am leaning towards some sort of entanglement projectile much in the style of the gaucho bolas or Spider-Man’s web-shooters. At any rate, I’m confident that the solution, once cracked, will be of invaluable use to the freedom-loving peoples of the World. It’s only right and proper that I turn my curse into a gift that could benefit mankind, much in the style of the X-Men. Suggestions for my superhero name are welcome.