Euro trash

Holiday romances are great, but since customs are different from country to country, how do you ensure that your sun-drenched dalliance is more Shirley Valentine than Midnight Express?

You could always consult the soon-to-be-published The Single Girl’s Guide to Meeting European Men, by Vanderbilt graduate Katherine Chloe Cahoon. Described by its author as "a unique hybrid of travel/European history and culture combined with dating/relationship [advice]... full of true stories with a chick lit feel and valuable information", it actually sounds like the funniest book since the last Onion anthology.

Katherine likes to maintain that she's in on the joke, but that doesn't excuse her unwittingly hilarious self-help videos that have been popping up on YouTube to plug her forthcoming bestseller. The problem is, Katherine is the least compelling presenter since Amanda DeCadenet attempted to host The Word.

Stiffer than all the Euro-peen she claims to have bagged over the years, Katherine stages a series of increasingly awkward interviews with a variety of hot men, who all seem to be expecting Ashton Kutcher to leap out of the bushes and announce that they've just been Punk'd. Since she's talking about passion and attraction, it's a shame that she musters up about as much chemistry as a homeopathic placebo.

After all, how could a woman with fiber-glass hair and range of headbands that she could have stolen from Marcia Brady, possibly represent the ne plus ultra of cosmopolitan man-eaters? Katherine can't even stand unaided, instead choosing to grab the nearest objet d'art to steady her.

She may well have been fucked from the Baltics to the Peloponnese, but her awkward handling of the world's most phallic microphone suggests she's all stilted talk and no action. There's something off about her speech too, like she's chewing on a mouthful of Rohypnol. Although that might give a clue as to the source of her mystifying success with all those European men.

Then again, just watch how she flicks her hair and dances to attract the opposite sex - the only thing anyone would be likely to erect is a safety barrier. Similarly, she asks one smartly dressed hottie how he would spot men from "your country" (Geographical detail not being one of her strong points). 

He replies "Most men from my country have beautiful blue eyes..." I hate to break it to her, but if her gaydar doesn't even work, what hope does she have of ever snagging an eligible euro-bachelor?

Here's a tip - if you really want to meet European men. Save yourself the price of Katherine's ridiculous book and put it towards the cost of the flight. Simples. 

Save the date

Despite our better judgement, everyone has a 'type'. When it comes to dating, we all have our own preferences that determine the kind of people we go for. It's particularly complicated in the gay world, where there are so many subcategories that someone has even gone to the trouble of creating a matrix to help categorise the multiplicity of sub-groups.

But straight people are beset by just as many complexities, particularly when it comes to ethnicity. Some people choose to date exclusively within their own race, whilst others do the exact opposite. Hoping to explode some of the myths and stereotypes that exist within the dating world, a former stock-options analyst for Goldman Sachs has turned amateur anthropologist to help women negotiate the pitfalls of interracial romance.

Picking up the mantle from Katherine Chloe Cahoon, who became a one-woman meme last year with the publication of The Single Girl’s Guide to Meeting European Men, J.C. Davies has written a new book called I Got the Fever: Love, What's Race Gotta Do With It?, in which she recounts her own experiences of dating outside of her own race.

Aside from managing other people's money, J.C. counts interracial dating as "her other area of expertise", which is about the nicest synonym for 'slut' I've ever heard. And although she may claim to be kicking down the doors of prejudice in her four-inch heels, the fact that she describes her current Iranian Jewish boyfriends as displaying "terrorist face" in bed, suggests that her mind isn't quite as open as her legs.

If you're expecting a revelatory insight into contemporary human sexuality, you might want to hang onto those Barnes & Noble vouchers a little longer. Criticising the majority of books about sex and culture, J.C. claims: "You have to make it super-p.c. and be the professor of blah-de-blah and have charts and graphs. The expectation is that [black men] are great in the sack and have huge equipment -- don't people really wanna know? Is the equipment super-sized? Let's just go ask some people!" I believe that might also have been Einstein's preferred methodology for robust scientific investigation.

The Village Voice has provided a handy précis of the book, presenting some of J.C.'s revelatory findings: "...money is very important to Jewish guys. And Asian men have small penises. And Latino guys are macho and possessive." If that's the sum total of her insight, I'd hate to think what myths she thinks she's rewriting.

I'm also a little concerned by an interview she did with The Sydney Morning Herald, where she told the journalist, "Before you call me a racist, let me just premise this interview by saying that you can't have a real conversation about race and relationships by being politically incorrect. Because you have to be honest. And honesty and political correctness are completely at odds with one another!" Not only does she contradict herself when discussing the evils of political correctness, she uses "premise" when I think she means "preface". Good with words, she is.

Unfortunately, the people who proclaim their lack of racism the loudest, tend to be the ones who make the most inappropriate remarks. She may want us to believe that, in her mind, love sees no colour, but the evidence stacks up against her. Whether she's warning women of the threats posed by JAPs (that's Jewish American Princesses), referring to one black Republican as an 'Oreo', or simply treating multiculturalism as a novelty buffet counter, she's about as convincing as the fake smile she wears on the book's cover.

What's Race Got To Do With It? I think she just answered her own rhetorical question.

Reaching the half-way point

OK, so this countdown of the year is starting to feel like a bad idea, but I'm half cut on Fluffy Ducks, so let's soldier on and see if we can make it to the end of June

In May, Danny Dyer got into hot water for a misogynistic advice column, in which he told one magazine reader with a problematic ex-girlfriend to slash her face so that no-one else would want her. Donnie Osmond took a different approach, finding that the way to a woman's heart is through her vagina. Well, a rolled up poster of Donnie any way.

With the weather finally on the turn, it seemed as though everyone had sex on the brain. Westlife were promising their sexiest album yet (which admittedly wasn't much of a ambition), one enterprising young woman staged an online auction of her virginity (although it's not clear whether anyone sniped the highest bidder at the last moment), and a British Job Centre tried to recruit phone sex workers.

Sex was the last thing on Kevin Jonas' mind as he found himself occupying a separate bedroom to his new bride, thanks to his snoring. And anti-gay Christian activist George Rekers claimed that the young rent boy who accompanied him on his European trip was only there to carry the luggage.

Daniel Craig, Johnny Galecki and Chace Crawford found themselves fending off gay rumours, whereas the big outings of the month actually came as a genuine surprise - country singer Chely Wright and long-standing Sesame Street resident Bert.

Less surprising was the revelation that the Rolling Stones took drugs when writing music, which was a little like George Best admitting that he liked the odd tipple. This year's Eurovision also offered few surprises, once again displaying Europe's knack for key changes, glitter cannons and political back-stabbery.

Finally, May saw the end of two long-standing institutions - the Labour government and Lost. Both had spent years delighting, confusing and infuriating in equal measure, and both knew that it was time to go. In the end, it was the survivors of flight Oceanic 815 that were more likely to be missed.

As June rolled over the horizon, people seemed to be packing away the final traces of self-awareness like it was their winter wardrobe. Republican Aaron Schock denied being gay (and even announced he'd burned the outfit that caused people to speculate), Tara Reid lamented her party-girl reputation as she attempted to avoid spilling beer from a plastic cup, and Giles Coren typed furiously that he wasn't Mr Angry.

McDonalds shocked France with an ad that suggested gays might enjoy the occasional quarter pounder (who knew?) and Vermont Catholic magazine hit the news-stands with a surprising cover, showing a priest apparently offering a choirboy more than just his sacrament.

In the pop world, Beyonce complained that she was tired of the Single Ladies dance routine (despite Kanye west's vocal approval), and Katy Perry took time out from shooting whipped cream from her tits to moan about Lady Gaga's offensive videos.

Boris Johnson lamented the fact that The Wizarding World of Harry Potter had opened in Florida, suggesting somewhat erroneously that England could have done it better. I think someone needs to lay off the butterbeer before he opens his mouth. And Mad Men star January Jones was caught doing the walk of shame after a big night out.

David Cameron finally got his feet under the desk at Number 10, and was quick to send out invitations to Britain's most prominent gays for a damage limitation party. Speaking of which, the big story on everyone's lips in June was the terrible BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. Big-hearted gays staged a sponsored oil wrestle to raise clean-up funds, Sarah Palin tweeted that we should all wait for God to intervene, and Kevin Costner invented a filtration system that he sold to the government. Well, it's not like he was busy filming that much-in-demand sequel to Dragonfly.

Finally, June saw the long awaited reveal and release of the world-conquering iPhone 4, although Carphone Warehouse decided that I hadn't waited quite long enough. But the less said about that, the better. Can anyone guess what months we'll be covering tomorrow?

Another one bites the dust

October’s a brutal month for the TV industry. With new shows debuting on every major US channel in September, all industry eyes are glued to the ratings, in the hope that audiences are adopting a similar position. Sadly, despite the months (often years) spent developing a show, the axe falls on underperforming programmes with ruthless efficiency. There’s no time for a slow start – a bad premiere is forgiven, a poor follow-up tolerated. But if the audience is still unconvinced by episode three, you’re as good as dead.

And that’s the hand that was dealt to The Playboy Club last week. NBC’s big new drama of the season, The Playboy Club was set in the 1960s, and was clearly hoping to emulate Mad Men’s runaway success. However, unlike Don Draper’s cable show, The Playboy Club was constrained by the fact that it was airing on network TV. That meant no swearing and certainly no nudity. In essence, it was portraying a world where people genuinely buy Playboy for the articles.

As the show’s third episode posted its worst viewing figures yet, NBC pulled the plug quicker than a gold-digger pointing out the ‘do not resuscitate’ sign in her husband’s hospital room. To be honest, no-one seemed particularly upset by the decision, least of all the right wing Parents Television Council, which released a statement celebrating the show’s cancellation, reading: “Bringing The Playboy Club to broadcast television was a poor programming decision from the start. We’re pleased that NBC will no longer be airing a program so inherently linked to a pornographic brand that denigrates and sexualizes women…” Next they’ll be accusing Dora the Explorer of being a climate-change propagandist.

In this instance, NBC may well have made the right decision. However, the networks don’t always get it right. Some shows take a while to cast their spell – needing time for the writers to find their voice and the cast to find their feet. So in honour of The Playboy Club’s swift demise, let’s celebrate a few shows that deserved to be kept on life support a little longer.

Firefly

OK, let’s get this one out of the way first. No ‘gone too soon’ list is complete without a reference to Joss Whedon ‘space and saddles’ saga. It may have only run for thirteen pacey episodes, but that was long enough to establish it as one of the best-loved, short-lived TV shows of all time.

Forget about Cowboys & Aliens – if you want a compelling, funny and genuinely interesting mash-up of sci-fi and western, Firefly is where it’s at. Although, interestingly, Whedon was insistent that there would be no aliens in his interplanetary tale. Instead, it was up to the eclectic mix of mercenaries, rebels, whores and preachers to create the drama.

Fan support was so strong that Universal picked up Fox’s dropped ball and financed a mid-budget big screen adventure for Mal and his crew. If nothing else, this means that Buffy’s creator can claim the dubious honour of having made a hit TV show out of a failed movie, and a hit movie out of a failed TV show.

The Comeback

When the world’s biggest sitcom finally called it a day after ten glorious years, everyone wondered what the cast would do next. And, more importantly, who’d be most successful. Whereas most of the Friends settled for roles and opportunities not a million miles away from their Central Perky personae, Lisa Kudrow went in the opposite direction.

Realising that reinvention after a successful role is nigh-on-impossible, she did precisely that, and even wrote a show about it. If you’ve never seen The Comeback, I recommend you give it a go. As well as giving Kudrow a chance to show her considerable acting skills, it’s a stunningly prescient vision of reality TV from a time when the concept was still relatively new.

Kudrow plays Valerie Cherish, the one-time star of a hit sitcom, who’s being filmed by a reality TV crew for a show called The Comeback. They follow her as she auditions for a cheesy new sitcom, the condition being that she’ll only get the reality series if she wins the role in ‘Bed and Bored’. Problem is, Valerie is grasping, shameless and utterly transparent. It’s not a comfortable watch, in fact, you’ll cringe so hard you may need to see a chiropractor. But if you enjoyed The Office, The Comeback is well worth a few hours of your time.

Family Guy

Not all these stories have an unhappy ending, as occasionally a network will bow to fan pressure and resurrect an aborted project. Family Guy is as show that actually got cancelled twice - once after the second season, and again after the third.

Unable to find anyone willing to pay for the rights to air old episodes, Fox practically gave them away to Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim. At the same time, seasons one and two were released on DVD and became a massive hit. In fact, Family Guy was 2003’s biggest selling TV DVD.

The following year, sniffing out a chance to make money, they welcomed series creator Seth MacFarlane back with open arms, and the show has been running ever since. Looking back at the three-year hiatus, Seth claimed that the show benefited from its cancellation, since it have the team a chance to re-evaluate what did and didn’t work. Many shows aren’t nearly as fortunate.

Tripods

Introduced during the summer of 1984 as a replacement for Doctor Who, The Tripods was a big-budget sci-fi experiment for the BBC. Co-financed with Australia’s Seven Network, it told the tale of three young boys determined to fight back against a race of all-powerful aliens who’d enslaved humanity and dragged society back to the middle ages, like a Republican party wet dream.

To my nine year-old eyes, the Tripods was terrifying, thrilling and breathtakingly tedious, in equal measure. Every Saturday for two consecutive summers, my sister and I would be glued to the screen, biting cheese flavor Hula Hoops off our fingers and cheering our hapless heroes on their epic journey.

As the second series finished, Will escaped the City of Gold and Lead to return to the rebel stronghold in the White Mountains, only to find that it had been destroyed by the Tripods. We didn’t bat an eyelid when JR took that bullet, but this was a cliffhanger that had us desperate to see how the story would be concluded.

Months later, an announcement followed in the Radio Times that there would be no concluding series. Effectively muttering under its breath, the BBC told its viewers that the show’s high budget and comparatively low ratings, meant that a third series would not be commissioned.

Eldorado

It’s not just the big budget serials that get killed off in dramatic fashion, soaps can also fall victim to merciless executives. I’m not going to talk about Albion Market, since there are probably only three people in the UK who miss that show. And that’s because they were in it. However, I’m sure I’m not alone in lamenting the premature demise of Eldorado, the BBC’s sun-dappled alternative to the decidedly downbeat EastEnders.

Clearly originating in a late eighties brainstorm where the words ‘European community’, ‘diversity’ and ‘international sales’ prominently figured, Eldorado took the Albert Square model and plopped it down in mainland Spain. With a cast that represented pretty much every country in Europe, but not a single reputable acting school, the early months were a disaster. Many of the performers spoke so little English they had to learn their lines phonetically. And you’d be forgiven for thinking the same about some of the British performers.

Bizarrely, a couple of major culls and some drastic rewrites actually did the trick and against all the odds, Eldorado became a soap worth watching. Just as Alan Yentob signed the death warrant. Sadly, we never got to see the much talked about bus crash ending, which had promised to send the entire cast on a day trip, only for them to topple over a cliff like some alternative ending from the Italian Job.

Without Prejudice

In a world of reality trash and tacky game-shows, it’s doubtful that anyone would mourn a hybrid of the two formats. But that’s because they probably never tuned into Without Prejudice, which only ran for two short series. On the surface, it didn’t appear to be anything special – a panel-based game show hosted by Lisa Tarbuck. Already Cash in the Attic is starting to look like an appealing prospect. But this feisty little show had a concept that elevated it to instant classic status.

Each episode involved two groups of five people – one group acted as the judging panel, whilst the others were the contestants. In five simple rounds, the panel simply had to decide who deserved a £50,000 cash prize (reduced to £20,000 in series two). The panel had nothing else to go on, other than their own preconceptions and prejudices – hence the bitterly ironic title. And although you often found yourself rooting for a particular contestant, the real joy of the show was watching the panel in action. If ever you wanted an insight into the dark heart of a Daily Mail reader, or the ignorance of a red-top fan, this was the show for you. “I’m sorry, but I’m completely opposed to giving this money to a bloody lesbian” was heard far more often than you might imagine.

It really was extraordinarily revealing, and often ended in particularly vitriolic exchanges. In one memorable episode, a single mother who wanted to go back to university to finish her studies was denied the money by a judging panel dominated by a bingo-winged matriarch with frosted tips. Instead, they gave £50,000 to a man who had already made his fortune, arguing that he was more likely to spend it wisely.

After the money was awarded, and they were finally allowed to ask how he intended to spend the money, he told them “I plan to buy three bracelets, one for my wife, one for my daughter and a third for my ex-wife.” One of the panelists was inconsolable with grief at the missed opportunity to change a life. Of course, the real tragedy in all of this, is that Channel 4 cancelled the show because no-one was watching it. Audiences would rather their reality TV come partially scripted and entirely staged, rather than holding up a magnifying glass to the ugly side of human nature.

Police Squad!

Hot off the success of Airplane!, Zucker, Abrahams & Zucker pitched a half-hour comedy show to ABC. Carefully constructed to replicate the scattershot format of their big screen disaster spoof, Police Squad took its inspiration from two popular police procedurals – M Squad and Felony Squad.

As we all know, the show continued Leslie Nielsen’s late-in-life shift towards broad comedy, and immortalized him as the hilariously inept Frank Drebin. Only six shows were ever made, but that didn’t stop it inspiring the hugely successful Naked Gun series several years later. For the record, the DVD commentary claims that the President of ABC Entertainment took the decision to cancel the show “because the viewer had to watch it in order to appreciate it." Imagine that.

Despite its frustratingly short run, Police Squad gave us some classic TV comedy moments – my favourite being the scene where an undercover Drebin breaks into the villain’s office and gets caught snooping around: “Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?” He asks. “I’m the Locksmith, and I’m a Locksmith” Drebin replies. Pure genius.