Return of the Time Thief

Fact of a Week: No matter how secure you feel in your relationship, buying an 18-pack of condoms is tempting fate. He/she will break up with you the next day and those things will stare at you from the sock drawer for the next six months.

Go See This: www.youtube.com/watch?v=QXyK0ean-D4&NR=1 I love James Corden.

MAIN EVENT

When you die I reckon God/Allah/Buddha/L. Ron Hubbard takes you aside and presents you with a long list of stats about your life. These stats would include things like number of days bunked off work, number of miles cycled along the pavement and the all important wank/shag ratio. He/she/they will then analyse these stats, much like Alan Hansen on Match of the Day (hmm, maybe he’s God)*, and decide how worthwhile a life you’ve led. This will then translate into how nice a flat you get in heaven – whether you get to live in a cool converted factory or above a chicken take-away 2 miles from a tube.

If this is indeed how it works then my most shameful stat is most likely to be number of hours spent watching Channel 4’s ‘Shipwrecked’. I don’t like it. In fact, I hate it. I have however still managed to spend an estimated three days of my life staring at the bloody thing like a confused marmot. There are two reasons for this: firstly, on Sunday mornings I tend to be in a vulnerable state where complex thought is impossible and an hour and a half of pretty people in a pretty environment seems appealing; Secondly, at least once an episode, Shipwrecked can be relied upon to make me so angry that I throw something at the TV – I find this perversely enjoyable.

For those unfamiliar with the format, Shipwrecked is a programme where two groups of people with ‘sexy-messy’ hair, from Godalming and the surrounding areas are marooned on two separate islands. They then proceed to wander around talking about how spiritual they feel and what a great experience they’re having, despite the fact that they’re doing literally nothing. There’s kind of a competition element tacked on but no one really pays attention.

The islanders are there for three months which, as the voice-over keeps telling you, places a huge emotional strain on them as they have only each other for company. Well actually, each other, a sound recordist, a producer, a production secretary, a couple of runners, a stylist and at least 3 cameramen all working in shifts with other production teams of equal size.

Despite this Satre’esque isolation the islands’ inhabitants rarely even argue and if they ever have sex with each other (which they surely must sometimes) the viewer never gets to hear about it. In fact, it’s bloody difficult to distinguish one episode, or even one series, from another. I’ve been watching the thing fairly regularly for its entire six series run and I can’t remember a single memorable moment or one cast member’s name - that is how unremarkable the show is. It’s basically exactly what you’d see if you put a camera in the common room of a posh sixth form college.

This year promises more of the same, though the producers have at least tried to keep a 50:50 toffs /proles split. All are ridiculously good looking except for one overweight girl. however, to her credit, after 2 days on the island she says ‘fuck this’ and speedboats out of there, pausing momentarily to pick a live fish from the water and swallow it whole**. There’s also a model who was tragically born with a speech impediment that forces him to shoehorn the words ‘sweet’ and ‘Yeah?’ into every sentence and a mouthy brunette who I’m hoping will get buried neck deep in sand with honey spread on her face (to attract ants) by episode three.

The first episode’s bile inducing money-shot comes courtesy of mouthy brunette who, upon learning that they have to nominate two people to leave the island, goes into a ‘Sophie’s Choice’ style fit of hysterics, successfully making the moment all about her – I think she’s a drama student. When they finally choose the smiley blonde from Cheshire as one of the ones who has to go, mouthy brunette goes into overdrive, hugging smiley blonde and screaming ‘I can’t do this without you’ through her sobs. Pretty impressive emotion for someone you’ve known for five days lady. She’s clearly one of those people who describe themselves as ‘big-hearted’ on application forms because they can’t spell clinically insane.

* Over the course of writing this I’ve decided that Alan Hanson is in fact God. Join me in worshipping him, the first sermon will be about the lack of clarity in the offside rule. Meet me in the car park of the Woking Morrison’s 10 am this Sunday.

** This last bit may have only happened in my mind.