TVReview: Christmas makes me nervous. Never one to embrace jollity without measured caution, my childhood yuletide memories fall into the sackful-of-anxieties variety.
You know the kind of thing: why do the fairy lights require brain surgery before they twinkle? Why did that mangy, gloomy old dog my father inveigled into our semi-d on Christmas Eve (in a haze of vinous sentimentality) pee so pungently all over the landing carpet? And (more importantly) if Santa Claus does manage to circumnavigate the globe with my patent-leather-booted Crolly Doll intact, will he step on it?
Sparing myself thermometer-in-the-turkey telly wasn't as tough as I might have predicted, however, especially given Dominic Savage's powerful Born Equal, an examination of inequality and social injustice set in London and revolving around the residents of a B&B temporarily housing the homeless, a drama which was about as festive as a vicious hangover. Savage makes films that could pass for the bright but un-pretty offspring of film-makers Ken Loach and Mike Leigh, similarly working from a palette of social realism and requiring actors to improvise dialogue, an approach that here resulted in a desperately moving film suffused with forcible and inventive performances that will resonate long after the mistletoe has wilted.
Colin Firth played Mark, a hedge-fund manager in the City, with a blond pregnant wife in designer maternity wear scanning the property pages for another, bigger, blond-wood-floored, airy London home. Mark, despite his wealth, is unhappy and emotionally cauterised. With a million-quid bonus in his back-pocket, and in an effort to assuage a sense of loss and isolation, he gets involved with a charity for the homeless and, in particular, with a teenage runaway.
Meanwhile, Michelle (a fragile Anne-Marie Duff), pregnant and with a young daughter, seeks refuge from her violent partner in the B&B, where she meets and falls in love with Robert (Robert Carlyle), who is just out of prison.
And yet another resident, Nigerian journalist and refugee Yemi (beautifully and poignantly played by David Oyelowo) and his family pay a terrible price for his political activism. These disparate characters and their stories play out on the dappled and dusty summer streets of leafy northwest London (or NW Twee, as it's known), where both the B&B and Mark's home are incongruously situated.
"We are all under the same sky," says Michelle to Robert, which seems like a delicately naive axiom given that, for so many, it offers so little protection. With the stark dichotomy between the haves and the have-nots in this country hardening like a lumpy bread sauce, Born Equal was a salutary and possibly not so unseasonal tale.
"DON'T GO ANYWHERE," instructed X Factor presenter Kate Thornton to the 12 million or so of us who tuned in to watch 21-year-old Leona Lewis, the first female to win the contest, belt out A Moment Like This, a cover version of American Idol-winner Kelly Clarkson's stirring three minutes of hedonistic tripe with the big key-change. It's at precisely "a moment like this" that you realise you too are part of a global brainwash.
Tough as you may think you are, sitting in your armchair with your well-polished smirk of derision and your tub of hummus (or is that a tub of derision and a smirk of hummus?), you too will be programmed to shed involuntary tears of joy when the little girl from Hackney with the great big voice, overcome with the sheer weight of emotion, breaks down, unable to finish the song.
Eight million votes were cast last Saturday night, which would probably indicate that musical electioneering is but a digital blip away. Eight million! I was staggered until I remembered that five of those votes were cast by my 10-year-old, which means that I, being the bill-payer, have a personal investment in Ms Lewis's lungs (better not catch her with a fag in her mouth).
Pitched against the young mixed-race Londoner was Ray Quinn, a tuneless Liverpudlian posing as a teenager when he is, in fact, in his late 70s, with teeth made of papier-mache (hey, I'm not biased). Just as unnerving as his penchant for murdering swing-a-long-a-rat-pack tunes was the unctuous Brylcreem boy's extravagantly easy access to his emotions: "I just wanna du me best . . . waaaah." I have attempted to fool myself into thinking that I (diligently) watched The X Factor in order to stay tuned to the zeitgeist, but no, even using words beginning with Z cannot hide the sorry fact that I enjoyed it. Yes, I took pleasure (God, this hurts), I liked it. I may even (ouch) miss it.
"DO WE WANT to have a culture of Podge and Rodge, or one of decency and respect?" asked Catholic Primate Archbishop Seán Brady this week, reflecting on the changes that have taken place in Irish society during his 10-year tenure. The short answer is . . . melt the puppets, monsignor.
My own disenchantment with the fibreglass fiends is based not so much on the vehemence of their malediction or their prurient interest in how many Fudge bars a punter can handle in her "selection box". I don't find it offensive when they inform a pig-tailed June Rodgers that her moniker makes her sound like a porn star, nor do I find it surprising that a bunch of nervy and defensive young women will mud-bathe or pole-dance for the lascivious dollies for the dubious honour of becoming "Miss Ballydung Manor". No, my gripe with the pustulent pair is that they bore me senseless.
No longer satirical or particularly funny, the interchangeable duo (Zig/Zag/Podge/Rodge) have been engaging us in a monologue for more than a decade now, and although they may once have been fizzily anarchic and happily rude, their strings are slackening. Their interview with Brendan Boyer was a desultory affair (aside from informing the wilting "Irish Elvis" that the word "hucklebuck" was graphically illustrated on page 39 of the Kama Sutra - no, I didn't check), with about as much tension as Miss Ballydung Manor's knicker elastic.
Flicking a warily confused Boyer between them like a discarded tea bag turned out to be a highlight of the mannequins' week, however, especially when compared to the following evening's attempt to talk to an apparently uncomprehending and incoherent Shane MacGowan, which seemed, even for hosts filled with sawdust, too depressing and farcical a game to be playing. And no amount of contrivance with their co-host, Lucy Kennedy (whose genuine warmth and confidence seems to survive whatever piece of tripe RTÉ throws at her), could make up for the embarrassment of You're a Star contestant George Murphy belting out a Pogues classic that same night as the credits rolled. Wherever MacGowan had got to, Murphy's pale imitation, perhaps indicative of Podge and Rodge itself, was more than a little tame.
OKAY, OKAY, OKAY. Christmas. There is nothing I can tell you that you don't know already (although if you lose your wristwatch, check inside the turkey - it happens). If this felicitous season has left you skint and weary, however, you might consider a move to Virginia, Co Cavan, where, in "Rampart View" (what a dispiriting and unassailable name), a solid house with doors and windows will set you back a poultry (sorry, paltry) 300 grand.
Although, if you find the idea appealing, be warned: two of the aforementioned cribs have been "done up" by Linda Martin and by painter and TV presenter Kevin Sharkey for a one-off festive edition of Celebrity Showhouse.
"Do you like that chocolate mosaic?" The tedious 30 minutes of rag-wash and drape ended, like so much Irish celebrity TV, in a kind of gentle mundanity, with a bunch of deadly serious Virginia residents, clutching their score-sheets, coming to view the burnt-orange/warm-wood/beeswax/ duck-egg interiors and decide who'd won.
Who'd won what exactly? "That gives me a warmly feeling," said one adjudicator, although whether he was referring to Kevin Sharkey's brass-bedded boudoir ("made for love") or Linda Martin's angrily chequered and over-confident curtains eludes me (sorry, I got distracted by the groan of boredom from the fairy on my Christmas tree). People are extraordinary - would you leave your celebrity-untrammelled home on a cold Cavan night to inspect Linda Martin's valance or to scratch the surface of Kevin Sharkey's marble? If that's Rampart View entertainment, the 300-grand price tag may be a bit too high.
Right, having insulted innocent Cavanites, for which I apologise, I've now run out of space.
There's no avoiding it. Happy Christmas, don't let the bed-bugs bite, and make mine a large one.
