The World According To Fred: August 2011
As I’m watching yet another re-run of the same episode of Scrubs on Comedy Central whilst eating my lunch, I contemplate again the utter rubbish that plagues our TV screens. Normally, I’ll say “I realised” or “I began to understand” but in this case, this does not fit: bad TV is an existential dilemma.
Now I know that I am about to open an enormous can of worms, especially considering the fact that it is a topic surrounded by greatly diverse opinions. Then again, most of the topics I write about are like that and this is, after all, The World According To Fred. So.
I will openly admit that I’m a teleholic. I follow nine TV shows, and that’s without mentioning those that I just watch every now and then, like Scrubs, F.R.I.E.N.D.S. and CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. And apart from Dr. Who, Torchwood and Outcasts all the programmes I watch are American. We as the British people seem to have resigned to the fact that everything America produces is flashier and cooler than what we can do (except for cars and biscuits. The Mini and the custard cream outstrip anything the USA has. Oh, and Harry Potter of course). And yet when it comes to television, we aren’t even putting up a fight. Our answers to the hit shows Glee, One Tree Hill and Desperate Housewives are The Only Way Is Essex, Made in Chelsea and Geordie Shore. I mean seriously? If I wanted to watch a load of narcissistic, untalented morons prance around then I would watch the auditions for the X Factor. The programmes seem to be a cross between a reality TV show and a scripted drama, which creates more of a train crash than anything else. I mean, if it’s a reality TV show, where is my option to have them all shipped off and hidden from society? Please, enlighten me on how these all work, because I have never been more confused to see an ignorant bunch of egotists on my TV screen. I haven’t watched the shows, no, but the trailers that interrupt my viewing of better programmes tell me everything I need to know. What qualities do these excuses for entertainment actually bring to the table? For example, Ugly Betty teaches that the beauty on the inside is more important than the out; and Glee teaches that you have to love yourself whoever you are – because of your faults, rather than in spite of them. The Only Way Is Essex? Ah, that takes loving yourself to a whole new, but entirely superficial level. The Only Way Is Essex teaches you that the real you is not someone worth being, but with a religious appliance of oompa loompa make-up, you can be someone worth knowing. Yes, this is exactly the kind of lesson we want to be putting out to the nation. The funny thing is, when I was at the Harry Potter premier in London, Ollie from Made In Chelsea befouled the red carpet by turning up. And then he had the audacity to reach for and try to sign my Harry Potter book. No! I am sorry (well actually, no I’m not) but these pages were reserved for my childhood idols, not some washed up idiot who got lucky by wondering in front of a camera without having ever cut or washed his hair. Not only now have we made these cretins famous, but now they believe that they are as important as the real actors that have slaved away for years to portray a message worth repeating, rather than which hair product is best for slimy egomaniacs.
Now for a TV show that gets the heart pounding in an entirely different way: as in, not from anger and frustration, but from excitement. The Vampire Diaries. For those of you who I know who are reading this, yes I can hear your sigh of exasperation. But why not! The show is amazing, gaining better lines, better plot points and more fans by every episode. It epitomises what modern TV should be about – love triangles and cliffhangers and characters so lovable that you fly the highs and scrape through the lows with them. Of course, the bountiful plenty of hot shirtless guys doesn’t hurt, but what I’m saying is that it’s about much more than a spray of fake tan and a false smile. I am one of those people that openly weeps at films, but it takes a true masterpiece to do that, and The Vampire Diaries managed that. I highly doubt that Made In Chelsea could pull that off, except for those that are mourning for the bygone era of decent TV. And for some unfathomable reason, despite the fact that it revolves around vampires, witches and werewolves (not to mention the mortal relationship issues that are sometimes just as perilous) TVD is somehow more believable than a group of people prancing around like ignoramuses. People love to watch what we all once or maybe still aspire to be – and I can guarantee that people will rather be the heroine in a fairy tale than a faker in real life. Which is why something made in Mystic Falls will always be more realistic and more enjoyable than anything Made In Chelsea.
Thursday 7th July 2011, and I was right behind the barrier at the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 World Premiere. Yes indeed, my friend and I were some of the screaming mad people right at the front of the crowd, albeit we were in Leicester Square instead of Trafalgar and we had arrived in fact on Thursday morning rather than the Monday before hand. I shall spare you the long-winded version. It’s likely that many people reading this have already caught my monologue in person and are tired of hearing it already. However, by the time we got to Trafalgar Square at about eight that morning (with permission from school; we weren’t truanting) the place was already packed. After a mistaken attempt at trying to get into the square itself (genuinely, we had no idea we couldn’t get in) we were informed that without a “red wristband” we could not get in, and that these had all been given out days before. To cut a very long story short, six security guards (we were inquiring, not in trouble) and countless “Go home. You have no chance without a red wristband”s later, we were a mere step away from leaving. But I wasn’t quite finished. I walked up to who we think was the head of security and begged him. Was there no-where we could go?
“Leicester Square.” he said.
“We were there half an hour ago,” I replied “The place is dead and the people we met told us that we were better off watching the premiere on TV.”
So that was it. We ran to Leicester Square as if we had just performed a whole bout of underage magic and the entire Ministry of Magic was hot on our heels. When we arrived we headed for the biggest cinema out of the three there (which were all showing the film, there were that many people). After asking a woman what exactly was going on here, and gaining the response “This is the Harry Potter premiere” in a thick Scottish accent, we decided to stay put. We made our way to the front of a crowd of people and were effectively penned in. We had initially been scared that the barriers would be cage like and that, despite the fact we were at the border of the civilian collection, we would be unable to see the cast. Yet, amazingly, they put up the waist high barriers that you see in videos of the premiers. Prime position for autographs.
Having stared at this image for nearly nine
By about six o’clock, the actors began to arrive. For the previous hour, a bunch of what can only be described as “nobody’s” had been prancing up and down the red carpet. Most had clearly had either bought their way in or were friends of the cast and crew , although some seemed to have won themselves tickets in (I dislike them thouroughly). However, a few clearly thought they were the stars themselves; they kept waltzing up and down like prize turkeys the day after thanksgiving. Fortunately the woman whos skirt was so short absolutely everyone was able to see her underwear (as well as some other things that should never be displayed to several hundred people in public) only walked past us once. It was funny – as people we didn’t know rounded the corner on to our portion of the red carpet, those closest began to scream in anticipation. The first twenty minutes were funny and even cute, especially with the children, but nearly an hour on when every time a slight scream went up about fifty people behind me would surge up and ram me and everyone else on the front line into the barrier; yeah, that’s when it started to get a bit tedious. It was like the film world’s equivalent of the front of the moshpit, with all the injuries that accompany it. I have bruises all along my arms, knees and stomach from where I was repeatedly and incessantly pounded into the barrier; at points I was almost doubled over the top of it. You musn’t think that I’m complaining though – I would do it a million times over if I could have that day again. Though I have to say that I am glad I was at the front: if I had been caught in the middle of everyone with my claustrophobia and having people pressing in from all sides; well, lets say I would’ve definitely made it onto the news then.
Bertie Gilbert, aka Scorpius Malfoy
Julie Walters, aka Molly Weasley
(in the golf buggy)
Helena Bonham Carter, aka Bellatrix
It was an unforgettable day; an experience that mirrors the effect that the Harry Potter series has had not only on me, but across the world on so many people. As I write this I realise I’m already on 1,788 words and I haven’t actually begun to talk about the sensation itself. It’s bizarre. It took me until this morning for the truth to sink in: that it’s all nearly over. I’ve been convincing myself for weeks that it’ll never be over, that I will continue to re-read the books and re-watch the films and of course I will do (that for certain will never change) but as I listened to Glee’s cover of Landslide, it hit me that there is nothing more coming.
“Well, I've been afraid of changing
Children get older, and I'm getting older too”
It fits perfectly. People my age have grown up alongside the cast of our beloved films, and it is a genuinely frightening thought to consider life without them. Harry Potter isn’t just a series of books: it’s a way of life. When I was upset I wouldn’t turn to music or TV like others might; I turned to my HP books. When I woke up in the middle of the night after a nightmare, I didn’t hug a teddy and hope the shadows disappeared; I flicked on a light and read until my head was filled with thoughts of Hogwarts. On a holiday in Cornwall one year, having read my other book, I spent the remainder of the break reading Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets on loop, and still laughed at every joke like it was the first time I had seen it. I’ve said before in a previous blog that a good book “should transport someone so drastically into another world that leaving it behind makes you feel homesick” and that’s exactly what the Harry Potter series does.
I shall put this bit as bluntly as possible: the films do not compare. Admittedly, they are amazing pieces of art (despite the fact that they grieviously messed up Half-Blood Prince), and they did an incredible job of creating sets like Hogsmeade and Weasley’s Wizards Wheezes; but nothing could ever cover the depth and intensity of the books. They create a whole world so extraordinary that it feels real; people may joke about receiving their Hogwart’s acceptance letter, but I genuinely thought it was coming. I am proud to be a Potterhead, and I want to thank JK Rowling for seven exceptional books and Warner Bros for ten unbelievable years. But after all - it will only truly be gone when none here are loyal to it.
The World According To Fred: August 2011
As I’m watching yet another re-run of the same episode of Scrubs on Comedy Central whilst eating my lunch, I contemplate again the utter rubbish that plagues our TV screens. Normally, I’ll say “I realised” or “I began to understand” but in this case, this does not fit: bad TV is an existential dilemma.
Now I know that I am about to open an enormous can of worms, especially considering the fact that it is a topic surrounded by greatly diverse opinions. Then again, most of the topics I write about are like that and this is, after all, The World According To Fred. So.
I will openly admit that I’m a teleholic. I follow nine TV shows, and that’s without mentioning those that I just watch every now and then, like Scrubs, F.R.I.E.N.D.S. and CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. And apart from Dr. Who, Torchwood and Outcasts all the programmes I watch are American. We as the British people seem to have resigned to the fact that everything America produces is flashier and cooler than what we can do (except for cars and biscuits. The Mini and the custard cream outstrip anything the USA has. Oh, and Harry Potter of course). And yet when it comes to television, we aren’t even putting up a fight. Our answers to the hit shows Glee, One Tree Hill and Desperate Housewives are The Only Way Is Essex, Made in Chelsea and Geordie Shore. I mean seriously? If I wanted to watch a load of narcissistic, untalented morons prance around then I would watch the auditions for the X Factor. The programmes seem to be a cross between a reality TV show and a scripted drama, which creates more of a train crash than anything else. I mean, if it’s a reality TV show, where is my option to have them all shipped off and hidden from society? Please, enlighten me on how these all work, because I have never been more confused to see an ignorant bunch of egotists on my TV screen. I haven’t watched the shows, no, but the trailers that interrupt my viewing of better programmes tell me everything I need to know. What qualities do these excuses for entertainment actually bring to the table? For example, Ugly Betty teaches that the beauty on the inside is more important than the out; and Glee teaches that you have to love yourself whoever you are – because of your faults, rather than in spite of them. The Only Way Is Essex? Ah, that takes loving yourself to a whole new, but entirely superficial level. The Only Way Is Essex teaches you that the real you is not someone worth being, but with a religious appliance of oompa loompa make-up, you can be someone worth knowing. Yes, this is exactly the kind of lesson we want to be putting out to the nation. The funny thing is, when I was at the Harry Potter premier in London, Ollie from Made In Chelsea befouled the red carpet by turning up. And then he had the audacity to reach for and try to sign my Harry Potter book. No! I am sorry (well actually, no I’m not) but these pages were reserved for my childhood idols, not some washed up idiot who got lucky by wondering in front of a camera without having ever cut or washed his hair. Not only now have we made these cretins famous, but now they believe that they are as important as the real actors that have slaved away for years to portray a message worth repeating, rather than which hair product is best for slimy egomaniacs.
Now for a TV show that gets the heart pounding in an entirely different way: as in, not from anger and frustration, but from excitement. The Vampire Diaries. For those of you who I know who are reading this, yes I can hear your sigh of exasperation. But why not! The show is amazing, gaining better lines, better plot points and more fans by every episode. It epitomises what modern TV should be about – love triangles and cliffhangers and characters so lovable that you fly the highs and scrape through the lows with them. Of course, the bountiful plenty of hot shirtless guys doesn’t hurt, but what I’m saying is that it’s about much more than a spray of fake tan and a false smile. I am one of those people that openly weeps at films, but it takes a true masterpiece to do that, and The Vampire Diaries managed that. I highly doubt that Made In Chelsea could pull that off, except for those that are mourning for the bygone era of decent TV. And for some unfathomable reason, despite the fact that it revolves around vampires, witches and werewolves (not to mention the mortal relationship issues that are sometimes just as perilous) TVD is somehow more believable than a group of people prancing around like ignoramuses. People love to watch what we all once or maybe still aspire to be – and I can guarantee that people will rather be the heroine in a fairy tale than a faker in real life. Which is why something made in Mystic Falls will always be more realistic and more enjoyable than anything Made In Chelsea.
Thursday 7th July 2011, and I was right behind the barrier at the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 World Premiere. Yes indeed, my friend and I were some of the screaming mad people right at the front of the crowd, albeit we were in Leicester Square instead of Trafalgar and we had arrived in fact on Thursday morning rather than the Monday before hand. I shall spare you the long-winded version. It’s likely that many people reading this have already caught my monologue in person and are tired of hearing it already. However, by the time we got to Trafalgar Square at about eight that morning (with permission from school; we weren’t truanting) the place was already packed. After a mistaken attempt at trying to get into the square itself (genuinely, we had no idea we couldn’t get in) we were informed that without a “red wristband” we could not get in, and that these 
had all been given out days before. To cut a very long story short, six security guards (we were inquiring, not in trouble) and countless “Go home. You have no chance without a red wristband”s later, we were a mere step away from leaving. But I wasn’t quite finished. I walked up to who we think was the head of security and begged him. Was there no-where we could go?
“Leicester Square.” he said.
“We were there half an hour ago,” I replied “The place is dead and the people we met told us that we were better off watching the premiere on TV.”
So that was it. We ran to Leicester Square as if we had just performed a whole bout of underage magic and the entire Ministry of Magic was hot on our heels. When we arrived we headed for the biggest cinema out of the three there (which were all showing the film, there were that many people). After asking a woman what exactly was going on here, and gaining the response “This is the Harry Potter premiere” in a thick Scottish accent, we decided to stay put. We made our way to the front of a crowd of people and were effectively penned in. We had initially been scared that the barriers would be cage like and that, despite the fact we were at the border of the civilian collection, we would be unable to see the cast. Yet, amazingly, they put up the waist high barriers that you see in videos of the premiers. Prime position for autographs.
Having stared at this image for nearly nine
By about six o’clock, the actors began to arrive. For the previous hour, a bunch of what can only be described as “nobody’s” had been prancing up and down the red carpet. Most had clearly had either bought their way in or were friends of the cast and crew , although some seemed to have won themselves tickets in (I dislike them thouroughly). However, a few clearly thought they were the stars themselves; they kept waltzing up and down like prize turkeys the day after thanksgiving. Fortunately the woman whos skirt was so short absolutely everyone was able to see her underwear (as well as some other things that should never be displayed to several hundred people in public) only walked past us once. It was funny – as people we didn’t know rounded the corner on to our portion of the red carpet, those closest began to scream in anticipation. The first twenty minutes were funny and even cute, especially with the children, but nearly an hour on when every time a slight scream went up about fifty people behind me would surge up and ram me and everyone else on the front line into the barrier; yeah, that’s when it started to get a bit tedious. It was like the film world’s equivalent of the front of the moshpit, with all the injuries that accompany it. I have bruises all along my arms, knees and stomach from where I was repeatedly and incessantly pounded into the barrier; at points I was almost doubled over the top of it. You musn’t think that I’m complaining though – I would do it a million times over if I could have that day again. Though I have to say that I am glad I was at the front: if I had been caught in the middle of everyone with my claustrophobia and having people pressing in from all sides; well, lets say I would’ve definitely made it onto the news then.
Bertie Gilbert, aka Scorpius Malfoy
Julie Walters, aka Molly Weasley
(in the golf buggy)
Helena Bonham Carter, aka Bellatrix
It was an unforgettable day; an experience that mirrors the effect that the Harry Potter series has had not only on me, but across the world on so many people. As I write this I realise I’m already on 1,788 words and I haven’t actually begun to talk about the sensation itself. It’s bizarre. It took me until this morning for the truth to sink in: that it’s all nearly over. I’ve been convincing myself for weeks that it’ll never be over, that I will continue to re-read the books and re-watch the films and of course I will do (that for certain will never change) but as I listened to Glee’s cover of Landslide, it hit me that there is nothing more coming.
“Well, I've been afraid of changing
Children get older, and I'm getting older too”
It fits perfectly. People my age have grown up alongside the cast of our beloved films, and it is a genuinely frightening thought to consider life without them. Harry Potter isn’t just a series of books: it’s a way of life. When I was upset I wouldn’t turn to music or TV like others might; I turned to my HP books. When I woke up in the middle of the night after a nightmare, I didn’t hug a teddy and hope the shadows disappeared; I flicked on a light and read until my head was filled with thoughts of Hogwarts. On a holiday in Cornwall one year, having read my other book, I spent the remainder of the break reading Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets on loop, and still laughed at every joke like it was the first time I had seen it. I’ve said before in a previous blog that a good book “should transport someone so drastically into another world that leaving it behind makes you feel homesick” and that’s exactly what the Harry Potter series does.
I shall put this bit as bluntly as possible: the films do not compare. Admittedly, they are amazing pieces of art (despite the fact that they grieviously messed up Half-Blood Prince), and they did an incredible job of creating sets like Hogsmeade and Weasley’s Wizards Wheezes; but nothing could ever cover the depth and intensity of the books. They create a whole world so extraordinary that it feels real; people may joke about receiving their Hogwart’s acceptance letter, but I genuinely thought it was coming. I am proud to be a Potterhead, and I want to thank JK Rowling for seven exceptional books and Warner Bros for ten unbelievable years. But after all - it will only truly be gone when none here are loyal to it.