Entertainment television; the proverbial teabag that has been reused to such extremes, that it only makes a tasteless non stimulating visual brew. Yuk! The cultural fulcrum has corroded and the wheels of artistic evolution have come spinning off into a crowd of Nuns and blind children.
Money trouble? Wolf at the door? Can’t sell your kids to Madonna? Then I prescribe a sob story/game show! The whole painful rigmarole of an everyday nobody being rewarded with a large sum of money is a cheap carrot to follow, but still it seems to be the impossible dream itself is what so many shows hook us with.
I’m now hooked, I’m programmed to want. And I want to win and nothing else because besides winning, there is nothing else! There are no second prizes anymore, it’s all or nothing. Spin the barrel, pull the trigger and either paint your watching loved ones on the front row of the audience with your brains or win a cruise for two. It makes you wonder just what we did with our sad infinitesimal lives before the orgasmic uncertainty of online gambling and such.
All troubles and woes can soon be swept away if you just pick the right box or avoid the molestations of Chris Tarrant by saying stop at the correct time (of which I‘d bet his blonde hostess will vouch).
As a viewer, I sit on my arse and gorge myself the subsidised, steroid fed reality pap and wait patiently for my turn in the dream factory. Only daring to speak during the commercial break just to ask my imaginary friend “What would you spend the £2.05 prize fund on?”.
Alas, this may be a lengthy wait, but there is always a chance that a Secret Millionaire perchance may knock at my door or a skinny Chinese bloke with bad teeth and his friend who looks like she eats lipstick might tell me how good I could look naked, without makeup and dressed only in barbed wire. Now that’s a service!
Crazed with the expectation that I must win big or lose it all, my eyes bloodshot through to much exposure to GaGa-Gok-Suckers; and clutching my Heat magazine in one hand and remote in the other, I discuss with myself about how Ray Quinn is the greatest ice dancer of all time and how terrible it was when the Celeb Air plane was high jacked by a crazed Fern Britton armed with only a low fat snack and flown into the This Morning studios. It’s a cover-up man!
They say, “Bend over and take it little people as you have no realistic long term reason to carry on with the infinitesimal existence that you were cursed with!”
And we all say, “YES CHEF!”.
Don’t let the fact these are called ‘harem pants’ put you off (though it does sound funny!) from, 
Aah yes denim, it shall never fade into oblivion and nor will you, with these fierce distressed, faded and bleached skinny jeans, £50.00
This hot mini denim skirt has a secret past: as a pair of Levis 501’s. This isn’t just any old denim mini skirt, its a recycled denim mini skirt… So go on do your bit for the environment whilst cruising down the high way, £28. 
I’m currently enjoying the benefits of unemployment, yet there still don’t seem to be enough hours in the day. If I could have a super power, I would choose never to sleep again, nor to go to the toilet. They’re such time wasting activities. If I didn’t spend five to eight hours in a coma rifled with strange thoughts every night, and several hours a week sat reading magazines and excreting digested matter, I could be doing so much other stuff. Stuff and things are the two words that my A level English tutor told us never to use as there is always a more intelligent alternative, but that is exactly what I mean. I have numerous stuff and things to do.
Get 