Meet the Natives

A lot of tv documentaries pretend to be insightful, retrospective shows designed to enlighten us on human existence but actually turn out to be gawp-fests a few elephants short of a freak show. However, Channel Four have come up with some reality programmes which undermine our desire to poke and prod the freak under the microscope. This time, the finger is turned on us.

Meet the Natives was aired a while ago, but thanks to 4od I was able to watch the whole series in one big hit. The four part documentary begins in Tanna, an island in the South Pacific and we are introduced to five members of the community who adopt the role as ‘ambassadors’ on a journey in and around England. Although the Channel Four film crew are clearly present taking backdrop shots and capturing the odd native dance in a village hall, the ambassadors are given their own hand held cameras, allowing them to observe and narrate the entire documentary themselves, which leads to interesting results.

In episode one, the men enjoy a short stay at a pig farm in Norfolk. This description makes it sound like a hovel of mud, but surprisingly the ambassadors find themselves in a rather luxurious farm house littered with scatter cushions, mood lighting and numerous bedrooms. The men are told that this is the ‘middle class’ way of living. Yes, middle class in that sort of cuddly 1950s ‘oh goodness, we are in the splendid countryside!’ kind of way. I’ve known plenty of farmers and they sure as hell don’t ramble in water logged fields by day and rest their feet on velvet cushions under glowing chandeliers by night.

Of all the families that the men stay at, the pig farm proves to be the most socially awkward. One of my highlights was upon the arrival at the house, the Tannese glance about and comment on the number of ornaments and decor. ‘This house is filled with crap,’ they say, or at least they would say if their language wasn’t so beautifully poetic. And quite rightly too. It made me observe my own bedroom, a lair of unwanted gifts, ornaments and trinkets that just fill up the place with a sense of disgust.

The ambassadors warm up to the man of the house, mister pig farmer himself and the groundskeeper for his traditional, bunny bludgeoning ways, although the farmer’s wife is a different story. At the initial dinner, the chief gives a heartfelt speech of how thankful the men are for being so well looked after, and his belief that the white and black people shall merge like ‘ink on white paper’. An awkward silence prevails, and is broken by the wife asking in her plummy accent whether anyone would like a drink. In fact, she pretty much interrupts all the pivotal moments by questioning a need for beverages, but it’s a behaviourism all us British are guilty of. When times get tough and we feel uncomfortable or unable to deal with intimate conversation, we inquire about tea.


Next on the agenda for the Tannese was a trip to Birmingham to live with a working class bi-racial family on a jolly looking estate. The men are thrilled to be staying in all the same room which resembles sleeping habits back in Tanna, and the family greet them with ease in their humble surroundings. There’s a lovely moment when the husband, a taxi driver is showing the men how to clean his mini cab using a jet spray, but manages to cover himself with blobs of foam. The men burst into infectious laughter with the Brummie, slapping thighs and holding their sides in pure ecstasy. You forget that these are islanders from the other side of the world who have never set foot in the Western world before, just a bunch of blokes sharing a joke. In fact, there isn’t a moment where the men are not smiling, laughing or enjoying the little quirks and oddities of British life. They describe themselves as ‘the happiest people in the world’, and it’s probably true.

The ambassadors are treated to KFC, after meal ciggies (apparently in Birmingham they are shared about like After Eight mints) and a trip into the city centre. They are shocked at the great number of homeless people shacking up in cardboard boxes or selling the Big Issue. When they question this, the husband merely states that although we are a rich country, some people are still very very poor and can’t afford to live in houses. It seems the family and the crew seem cautious not to tell the islanders the real reasons of homelessness: drug addiction, broken homes, domestic abuse. It’s all glossed over, perhaps in a bid to prevent over exertion on the Tannese’s part. Regardless, the men presume that our society has no interest in the welfare of its poor, and it is a sight which they never forget and tell to their people back at home, the shortcomings of the English.

On their final journey they head to Northumberland to stay with Sir Something-or-rather in Chillingham Castle. Because, you know those crazy aristocrats! They all live in dirty great castles in the middle of nowhere with only their vintage musket collection for company. The islanders follow Sir Bobby-Pin or whatever his name was around the stone mansion in horrified silence. Mounted animal heads, weapons and torture devices adorn the walls like a personal homage to Marquis Du Sade.

Sir Snuffle-Nose teaches the ambassadors the all important rules of fine dining and etiquette, and they stare in bafflement as they are instructed to use the stabby and pokey eating tools ‘from the outside in.’ These displays are indeed ludicrous, but the men listen and respect the rules because they are long standing tradition, something the Tannese deeply honour within their culture. Later they witness fox hunting, or should that be in sarcastic inverted quotes ‘fox hunting’ which involves chasing a quad bike instead of small ginger animal. The islanders are curious to know why this tradition in carried on in such an odd manner, a waste of time to some.

Before their departure, the ambassadors perform the native dance as they showed the previous communities they visited, except this time it’s part of an upper class black tie dinner. You think to yourself, oh, this is going to be awkward, if the middle-classers stood around nervously chewing their mouths, the poshos will be much worse. Rather refreshingly, the chanting commenced and the aristocrats were up and dancing along to the beat, and enjoying it too. Their host gave a heartfelt speech this time. No patronising, no humouring the islanders; but a sincere thanking of the people who travelled so far to come and dance in their stone halls.

After a special visit in England, the ambassadors return home greeted by a wave of grass skirts, singing and dancing. As inventive and insightful as the documentary had been, I couldn’t help thinking Tanna was represented like a colour book of what native people should be like. Happy, plump brown skinned people in straw houses and beautiful tropical landscapes. The Tannese are never homeless, they care for each other, look after their animals and there is never any crime. Perhaps the Tannese choose to skim over the unfavourable details, maybe they see their world without flaws. Perhaps they really are the happiest people in the world.

The crowded island

There's just too many men, too many people making too many problems and everyone hates each other. I may be paraphrasing Genesis's anti-Thatcherite song 'Land of Confusion', but I find no other way to say, there is just too many fecking people on this island.

I live just outside of a former industrial town in essex which remained generally unoticied for decades until the London overspill, an airport and a snobby outlet village lured in the masses. Anytime of the day the roads are congested, and I, the eternal pedestrian avoid near death on a daily basis by dodging the frustrated drivers. Is it just me or is everyone behind the wheel betting on who can run over my legs in the shortest time? Since when is it ok for drivers to hurtle down a road then suddenly blast their horn at a unsuspecting pedestrian who was crossing at a clearing?

We are told humans are social beings, we crave social surroundings, we must exist around other existence otherwise what's the point of existing? Am I some social outcast because I like to have space and quiet by myself? Whoever says they enjoy the elbow jamming and obnoxious shoving in nightclubs is either a liar or an idiot. A young Amish girl commented on the crowds of London in a recent Channel Four documentary, "I notice that one out of three (communters)have headsets on, isolating themselves. It's kind of amazing how you can be in such a big crowd and be totally isolated."

I can't even walk into town without being bundled by a herd of old grannies. As painfully inhumane to even mention, old people just don't die anymore. They are on calorie controlled and heart disease busting diets, pepped up with supplements for every dodgey bone and ligament, and although they are hobbling about like extras from Dawn of the Dead and quality of life has rapidly decreased, hey, at least they are alive! I'm not suggesting that everyone go to the old folks home and smother great aunt Doris, just be aware of who is really clogging up the earth. And causing all that extra methane in the atmosphere. Its not the cows.

But the real cause of overpopulation is startingly obvious: reproduction at an excessive level. For some reason these days just having one of something isn't enough. People have to have more than one car, people are not satisfied with owning just one fat smelly labrador, they have to collect at least three, like gargantuan Pound Puppies, and people have to have more than one child to make a family.

Urgh, I see babies and children everywhere I go, all dribbling and gawping, and peppering every toilet, shop and street with sweet wrappers. For someone who has a general bewilderment and/or fear towards these small creatures, I seem to have landed myself a temporary job that demands constant involvement with children and their tiny acrid feet. Millions of them plunder into the shop. Flustered parents block walkways with giant buggys, causing kids and shop assistant alike to perform a rather clumsy dance along the floor. Children run around the shop picking up shoes and helpfully dropping them elsewhere. I get whacked on the head by a set of keys given to a baby while he or she is repeatedly kicking in my general direction whilst I strap a foot down. Its like trying to measure a very angry, very alive eel. The end of the day the assistants are lying unconscious on the ground blanketed in shoes and sweet wrappers.

The trouble is, there are just too many children in the world, or indeed in the UK. Britain's sides are bulging with the whining devils, they render every simple joy renderless. I can't go to a toy museum or see a Disney movie at the cinema without the sheer irritation of a child's incessant cry. Perhaps I'm going to the wrong places.

I think for Britain we must invest in an idea brought forward by Karl Pilkington, the 'round-headed bufoon' of The Ricky Gervais Podcast. He notes that the overpopulation dilemma could be solved if everyone could go through single procreation i.e we all live until 78 and when we die we subsquentally give birth to a baby, and the cycle continues in a strict, unmessy fashion without fear of using up all our resources and damaging the earth in one big hit. Brilliant idea, and I hope scientists make an advance on this. For me, its either reincarnated pod people, or moving to Canada.

The Tennanite age of irritation

I've been on a Doctor Who marathon, possibly the greatest time waster to repeatedly watch episode after episode, box set after boxset, but this now means I've somewhat an expert of the revamped series, in particular the Tennant age. However fantastic and lovable Tennant is, and even though he was become some sort of national treasure thanks to Doctor Who, there are some rather annoying aspects to series two to four.

Doctor smart-arsery

As noted by TV critic Charlie Brooker, Tennant's doctor is a bit of a smug know-it-all, and so he should be too seeing as he is a timelord and all. But his infuriating constant dribble of enlongated words and exclaimations, 'Oh, it's space!' leaves the assistants, Rose in particular with their brains oozing out thier skulls.

'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry'

Right, stop there. Please stop saying sorry to everyone you meet, how is that helping anyone on the brink of death, enemy or otherwise? 'I'm so sorry you are dying' 'Oh it's ok Doctor,' says a humanoid in the process of gooeyfication 'I feel much better now you said that!'

Kill them while you can!

On a similar point, stop the whole reptance nonsense. Stop giving people second chances or trying to negioate/hug/kiss a dalek. Don't you remember what they did to your planet? Your enemies wouldn't waste a second in killing you once your back is turned, so what's all this softie forgiveness crap? I seem to recall in Tennant's first appearance as the Doctor he said 'No second chances.'

The idolisation of Rose Tyler

The doctor and Rose had this wierd, totally unconvincing romantic relationship which seemed to delight the modern audience, however I found it too soppy for my taste. Soppiness without the snogging and midnight fumblings, like watching Twilight. When old blondie got pulled into the paralel world, suddenly she became some legendary woman which no assistant could ever live up to again. She was the Rebecca (a Du Maurier reference!) to Martha's role as new and supposedly inferior wifey. When Rose comes back in series four the legend crumbles. Somehow her face is more contorted than I remember, and her accent is flirting between recieved pronounciation and that of an East London returning from a trip to the orthodontist.

Diabolical doubles

Yes, ok its perfectly acceptable in the world of DW to use the same actors for a number of roles, but its so bleeding obvious who they are, I feel the magic is lost a little. Oh, there's that girl who got killed by the Cybermen, she looks the spitting image of Martha, but no, she's a cousin...ooh clever! Ah and there is Chinese bug girl Chantho in Turn Left looking and sounding pretty much the same despite not being blue. And Amy must have had a great great great great great great great aunt in Pompeii because that soothsayer that keeps cropping up looks distinctly like her.

Continuity Error

The Doctor spent a whole scene in The Fires of Pompeii explaining to Donna that the Tardis translates nearby conversation for them and they in turn can speak said language without knowing it. And that if they try to speak the language themselves i.e dolce vita in ancient Italy, they end up speaking gobbledy gook. They seem to have forgotten this important element when the Doctor meets the Judoon in The Stolen Earth and speaks both English and Judoon right in front of the Tardis.

What did we talk about when Twilight wasn't around?

Ok, so I've succumbed...I'm writing a blog about Twilight. It's a painful decision to make, but rather than telling you all how much I love or loathe it, I'm going to moan about the people who do.

Everyone has an opinion on it, and I really don't. The people who bitch about it are contributing even more to the vortex of spinning commentary, criticism and fandom of the saga which is cropping up bloody everywhere. I'm convinced the over compensating waffle will eventually collapse on itself, creating a black hole for any credible journalism out there.

Sadly even my bitterly enraged hero of media, Charlie Brooker has given up hope and wrote a Twilight hating article for the Guardian website, I was sorely disappointed. It doesn't say much about yourself if you are a gabbling vampire obsessed cretin who thinks dead people, looking sour-faced and throwing yourself off cliffs is sexy, nor does it show any intellectual capacity if you are an adult spewing intense hatred at a franchise aimed at misfit teenage girls.

I've read the first two books and watched the complimentary books. I've seen the merchandise, the t shirts, the soundtracks, the sparkly 'Edward' dildo, and you know what my immediate response is? Meh. Just meh. I don't love it, I don't despise it, its a nothingness to me, its irrelevant to the rest of my film/book experience. I experience it then I move on. I don't really understand the whole hype myself, perhaps it's been a while since the whole vampire thing emerged again, maybe the last ulimate sex symbol for tweenagers was Donny Osmond, perhaps half the population has a blood fetish, who knows.

So please, if you are a Twi-lover, stop ramming it into peoples faces, the books are poorly written and as original as the fifieth film version of A Christmas Carol. Commentators, stop taking the intellectual highground and spreading your snobbery to those who enjoy the books and films, you are just as bad as each other, and may I suggest that you both try reading some Austen, she's pretty good you know.

Fluffy female viewings

It is me or has rom-coms, chick flicks and general fluffy films designed for the femail audience got dumber over the years? In 1995 we had Clueless, a surprisingly satirical stab at LA vapidity, and underneath its skin lies the bones of Jane Austen's vanity driven Emma. So the film works on all levels, teenagers can enjoy the hypnotic technicolour characters, and older viewers watch it knowing it's taking the piss out of materalistic American culture.

The 1990s was a successful era for rom coms, especially British productions like Four Weddings and Funeral and Notting Hill, but I really loved the kooky American films like Ten Things I hate About You, which was yet another teen comedy based on British canon Literature (Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew). It's true, these seemingly pulpy chick flicks owed their success to a backbone of timeless stories. Baz Luhrmann's Romeo and Juliet, a rather theatrical yet stylish and contemporary take on the well versed play made it a blockbuster hit.

Sadly today, movie makers have either run out of illuminating plotlines or simply want to mass produce a ton of flaky, predictable guffage to subdue the female audience. Blokey films went through a dumb stage in the late 1990s with American Pie, Scarey Movie and Dude Where's My Car? Ok so most comedy is dumb in some format, but none so much as the dopey school kid on a mission to shag anything that moves.

Thankfully the late noughties/early tennies...whatever you wish to call them brought about nerdy dudey films with the likes of Michael Sera, Seth Rogen and Jason Segel. Superbad, Fanboys, Pineapple Express - these are blokey films that don't reduce its male characters to dribbling, sexually deviant monkeys. Yes the men are stupid and immature but are also lovable and foolish little boys. It's a bit inaccurate to say these are totally blokey films, and unfair to say Forgetting Sarah Marshall and Juno appeals to girls only. Bless the person who burned all concept of 'dude' movies in this decade.

Unfortunately, pure chick-flickdom hasn't died yet...there are too many women still watching them! They are churned out at a rapid speed and repeat the whole tedious storyline again, and again and again! i.e successful single business woman gets into a spot of bother which can only be resolved by dumb hunky guy who reveals later on he's not so much of a tool, woman falls for him, yadda yadda pass the sick bucket etc. The whole hate transforming to love thing possibly came from the spiky relationship between Benedict and Beatrice in Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing, although the constant rehashing of this makes me want to pummel my own brains out with the blunt end of a pencil.

Usually the rule of thumb is to never see a movie with Katherine Heigl, Sandra Bullock or Kate Hudson in it...and most importantly Matthew McConaughey who is possibly the most irritating actor of all time. I just don't understand how people get entertainment from these shameful acts of filmaking. I was even disappointed by both Sex and City movies. The series is slick and rather scathing towards men and aspects of modern sex and society, but the movies were one big porno for designer shoes, clothes and swanky resorts. as Charlie Brooker says when commenting on aspirational television (Dallas, The OC etc)instead of making us feel part of the fantasy world, we feel isolated by it. Why can't we have hot shot friends milling about after us and stupid sexy men grovelling at our feet? Then women feel the need to buy luxury items to be part of that aspiration. Fluffy hair, now fluffy brains.

Childrens' TV of the 90s

Here is a run down of just a few of my favourite television shows as a child. Some of them have come and gone without notice, others have lived on to legendary status with those of us in our mid to early twenties, hope you enjoy it!

Animals of Farthing Wood

This was a rather bleak cartoon of the 90s, but was immensely popular during its airing. Not just a drama about a bundle of cute cuddly creatures but a severly cruel stab about the realities of being a woodland creature; death, death and more death! Some scenes haunted me as a child, like the death of pheasant, who is so scared hiding from hunters she flies off and is instantly killed by gunshot. The series had a grim outlook on life, but it also had a degree of intelligence, it didn't patronize kids and showed the need for diplomacy and leadership in small societies a la Watership Down and Animal Farm. My favourite characters were Badger, a wise elderly creature and the weepy, clingy Mole who spent the majority of his journeys on top of Badger's head. Aesthetically, the cartoon stood out with its quality artistry and colourful landscapes, a feature which was slowly dying out as commissioners realised sketchy japanese imports were much cheaper to air on UK television.

Noah's Island

By the same people who made Animals of Farthing Wood, Noah's Island was similar in design and messages of teamwork and relationships, except with a much lighter tone. The Badger-Mole relationship was recreated with polar bear Noah and Sacha, a Russian Desman (type of mole) who perched on Noah's head, ending each sentence with 'ski!' much to the other animals' annoyance. Unlike Farthing Wood where each and every animal knew their place, Noah's Island was comprised of a mix of exotic animals, all striving to be of great importance on the island. The series was amusing, thoughtful and poignant in parts, I miss it so!





The Moomins

This cartoon both mesmerised and terrified me as a kid. Strange plump hippo creatures living in a picturesque Nordic land. The cartoon series was developed by Dutch and Japanese companies which gives the series an odd blend of stylistics and cultural references. The stories include many Finnish folktales including the creepy Groke, a silent aubergine like monster which hovers plants and living things, killing them with its frost. One very irritating character was Little My, a small human girl adopted by the Moomins and although not intentionally scary, her horrible giant angry eyes haunt me to this day.

Power Rangers

The epitony of the 90s kid. Watching Power Rangers on CITV and trying to recreate battle scenes with friends. The bizarre ranking of colours, like a caste system for the infantile race meant as a child I fought tooth and claw to play the pink power ranger(the pretty one) or the yellow one (token ethnic female minority. For the lads, if you were not the red power ranger, or the ultimate white one (aka 'Tommy') you might as well live at the slimy end of the gene pool.





The Demon Headmaster

The story: an evil non human entity in the shape of a headmaster posesses pupils through the art of hypnosis do to his wicked bidding. The series had an overall Doctor Who-ishness where one minute the kids were normal happy gurgling urchins and the next, souless human husks. I never knew the exact reasoning for the headmaster's motives (take over the world one child at a time?) but his character was played with demonic perfection by Terrence Hardiman, possibly the most creepy looking man on British television. Years after the children's series, whenever I see Hardiman's expressionless face and cold pale eyes on TV I stagger back from the set, exclaiming 'Christ, it's him!'

Hey Arnold

Purely brilliant, and totally watchable even as a 22 year old. Set in a run down neighbourhood in New York, Arnold and the rest of his cartoon pals help solve dilemmas and personal problems of others within the tight knit community. Almost every minority is shown and the series deals with some adult issues such as immigration and depression. I loved the character of Helga, a blonde girl in a pink dress, but with the face, voice and soul of a rabid monkey. Helga is a girl with issues, shes in love with Arnold but is so scared of rejection she hides her feelings behind a constant explosion of abuse. Everytime Arnold is out of earshot, she grabs a heart shaped photo of him and whispers sweet nothings to it, heck the girl even has a shrine for Arnold hidden in her bedroom. I loved her because she's so easy to associate with, she doesn't act like a little girl should, shes mouthy, angry and resents her older sister for being a picture of perfection in her parents eyes. Hey Arnold is riveting stuff.





Come Outside

A delightful educational programme involving apple-faced Lynda Baron as cheery Aunt Mabel and her scruffy mutt Pippin. The duo go on mini adventures in a spotty aeroplane whilst learning at the same time! Ok so its stretching it a bit calling them 'adventures', 'Come Outside' is more like a school trip around the faltering, rather mundane side of British production. For example, Mabel and Pippin visit the Golden Wonder Crisp factory (gasp!), The Council is called out after Mabel spots a broken street lamp (wha?!) and a fruit salad is made, minus the apples (No way!). However the show is charming in a truely British way that celebrates drugery, only an English kid can get excited to find out how a teapot is made. A favourite episode of mine is 'Sewage', where predictably mabel and Pippin find out what happens to poo once it's been flushed away - cut to plump jolly lady strolling along in delight and awe within a shit infested sewer - only in Britain!

So many programmes worth a mention, but I doubt I will ever get this blog done if I continue to list every single show of my childhood! I hope it floods back oodles of nostalgia to those who read it.

Modern life is rubbish

Technology hates me, and this is a fact. When I'm around something remotely electronic, it fizzles out and dies without even a hint of an internal error. In the last three years I've broken three television sets, two computer monitors, two phones, two cameras (although I suspect a friend sat on one and didn't own up)and an ipod within three months of having it. It makes my life seem even more pathetic, that I'm so awful to be around even non senitent beings would rather top themselves that hang out with me.

Trouble is I love technology, my Ipod touch is the greatest possession I have. I can read emails, watch youtube, make to do lists, write poetry, navigate through the star system, look at a map, play a fuck load of games...oh and listen to music. I also love my pc and all those unproductive hours searching wiki for interesting articles or watching tv online. Everything can be done with such ease. Unfortunately, with ease comes a newly developed ignorance of basic human interaction.

I've been in correspondance with an investigation team and have done some voluntary research work for the team. Trouble is the 'manager' is a complete moron who despite sounding coherant on the telephone, cannot write for shit. Oh it just aggravates me to no end reading his poxy, idiot infested emails. It's a puddle of words, jumbled up, repeated, spewed out in bad grammar, lack of paragraphing and no punctuation except a full stop where a full stop has no right to be. The man thinks 'no' is the same as 'know'and I don't think I could ever trust a grown man who spells television as'telivision'. He also had the rudeness to reply to one of my subtle please-stop-writing-like-a-coma-patient emails by sending everything I wrote back, only inserting large angry capital lettering in between, insinuating (if I knows what that is) that I was the dumbass!

I don't like the way technology governs our lives. If someone my age doesn't get a text all day, they assume something awful has happened. I dislike having a phone a lot of the time, it means I never have an excuse to call back or have a day free of pestering relatives or sales calls. I hate how mobile phone adverts always show some poncy git in a blazer with a bumfluff beard being all 'social' because his phone has video messaging, twitter and facebook. It's like you are not allowed to walk out your house without being a networking whore. Are we so devoid of internal thought that we must never ever be alone? I just don't understand why people need Facebook on their mobile, I've known people who I've gone for a night out with, and no matter how brilliant or awful it was, they rush home to check their Facebook like a mother who's just realised they left their baby in a park.

I admit I use Facebook, and Twitter, and Livejournal, but only ever to connect with friends and gloat about my life. If you are at a party and you update 'lol I'm at a party, and it's fucking nuts!' you are probably the one standing alone in a corner or checking out your rubbish hair in the mirror.

I'm not a big fan of Satelite TV. Unfortunately as is the case anywhere you look, he more choice you are given, the more faff you have the wade through. Sky TV is brilliant if you enjoy watching endless repeats of American TV or excessively dull reality TV and documentaries. Or maybe just watching roulette wheels go round and round, or chubby dog-eared lap dancers' bottoms go round and round, whatever flots your proverbial boat. As mentioned in my previous moan, English television is a bore, but sometimes the boringness of a show i.e Big Brother is so boring it sucks you in, like when you stick your foot under the hot tap and eventually it feels cold.

Technology is wonderful, the internet in particular. It lets irritating, grumpy people like me go on and go about their thoughts, much to the pleasure of their audience and what can be wrong with that?