Posted by roomynonce on Aug 1st, 2009 and filed under Why is he wearing Patrick McGoohan’s jacket from The Prisoner? Why does his hair alone make you want to punch him in the face? How does his Oxbridge fag voice manage to be so animated and yet so devoid of imagination? He is the unfunniest man in existence, so why does he find himself so hilarious? I don’t care, I just want someone, anyone, to give me his address so I can hang around whatever arsewipe winebar he frequents, slip him a Mickey Finn, and make sure he kisses the bottom of the Thames on a moonless night.
Is it too much to ask? Of course not.
+++UPDATE: 24.08.09; They’ve dumped him. 3 have replaced his nationally detested visage with simple animated text, improving matters a thousandfold. I hope it doesn’t give him the opportunity to rebuild his life.+++
Although I also hate these spots, I just feel sorry for this guy. I imagine some young aspiring actor getting all excited as he’s signed up to do some sponsored links that will gain him nationwide exposure. He then receives those appallingly feeble scripts and it dawns on him that he will soon be one of the most hated people in the country. But he’s a professional, so he slaps on that shit-eating grin and ploughs his way through those mirthless atrocities. Worse still, they’re put right up against actual comedy, which only serves to highlight their abject putridness. Like some character in a Beckett play, he is forced to march on despite being quite aware of the pointlessness of it all.
‘Abject putridness’? What a perfect summation DJB, and I agree with your rationale up to a point. Perhaps it does require the most perverse bravery to walk into the flames of public ridicule, if only to prevent the descent into long term unemployment and, ultimately, the scratch n’ sniff n’ suck world of male prostitution, but you forget what makes us human, my friend. Free will.
How many chances did this gentleman have to save his soul? He could have said no when he read the scripts – as would any other human with half a heart and fully functioning artistic judgement. He could have said no when wardrobe foistered that jacket on his boney arse, for what does that jacket say apart from ‘I’m a post-modern c*nt’? He could have said no when the director told him to be ‘more zany’, i.e. he could have attempted to embue his performance with a Steven Wright style form of self-awareness that said ‘hey, I know this is shit’ even as the dog’s eggs fell from his lips.
But no, he had to go full throttle; he had to try to make us believe those words were funny, as if, by sheer will alone, he could perform comedic alchemy. His failure has only served to amplify the humourless nature of the material so that its atrocity reverberates through time and encompasses his entire life.
No, he had plenty of chances to save himself and spurned them all. His only reward now should be a swift consignment to oblivion; either that, or provincial repertory theatre.