Episode 4 Charlie Brooker's Weekly Wipe

This programme contains adult humour and some strong language.

Hello, I'm Charlie Brooker and you're watching Weekly Wipe,

a programme all about things that are happening.

Things like this...

Justin Bieber has been arrested.

His lawyer advised him to remain silent.

Not for any legal reason. Just to make him shut the f... up.

Astonishing scenes in Ukraine as 14th-century combat

explodes in the present day.

It's good news for anyone who can't wait till season four

of Game Of Thrones.

As Sky's coverage expertly detailed,

some protestors protected themselves from riot cops

by disguising themselves as a shed.

Sensational scenes as Channel 4 delights the nation

with thrilling snow-sporting spectacular The Jump.

Awkwardly, Amy Childs refused to jump,

meaning the programme should really have just been called 'The'.

That's the sort of thing that's been going on, but we start...

with Mr Justin Bieber,

and if you think the world is a confusing place for us,

what the hell's it like for him?

For several years, Justin Bieber was afforded blanket media exposure,

bibbling around in saccharine footage,

just another nauseating butter-wouldn't-melt pop-weasel,

hammered into the global consciousness

like a nail of frozen piss through a cabbage,

delighting screaming teenage girls and, as this wonderful photo shows,

dismaying their dads.

But then things started to go wrong for pop's Prince Joffrey.

For one thing, he grew up and is now 36 years old,

and looks like Jim Carrey playing Vanilla Ice.

Following a series of bizarre incidents,

he was scarcely off the gossip pages.

He had this heartening confrontation with a provocatively foul-mouthed

paparazzi Phil Mitchell impersonator.

-..fuck d'you say?

-You heard what I said.

-What d'you say?

-Fucking little cock!

Hmm, last time I saw scum getting under the skin of a prick like that

I was watching Embarrassing Bodies.

More recently, in a bid to provide mankind with a single

grim visual metaphor that encompasses everything,

he was filmed pissing into a mop bucket,

and also pelting a neighbour's house with eggs

in scenes which amused news networks and our own Doug Stanhope,

who called him a pussy on last week's episode of this show.

These fucking sissies! They drink a Red Bull for some pep and spirit.

But that seems so long ago.

Fox News alert.

Just coming out of Miami Beach, Justin Bieber has been arrested.

Yeah! He's ruining his life!

Yes, to the obvious delight of every news channel on earth,

Justin Bieber had allegedly been drag-racing a buddy

in an unassuming yellow Lamborghini

when he was pulled over by Miami cops.

I hope when the police cars chased him they went, "Bie-ber, Bie-ber".

Immediately, the media went batshit.

Narcotics, marijuana and alcohol.

Bieber's arrest aftermath.

His smiling mug shot after allegedly cursing at cops.

Yes, posing for the world's cheeriest mug shot

didn't do him any favours,

because he didn't look penitent enough for society's liking.

Look at that hair! I mean, really!

Seriously, look how happy he is.

That could be the front cover of a cereal packet

or a jar of peanut butter.

By the next day, the Bieber news had become so all-important

MSNBC felt it trumped a conversation with a Congresswoman

about the NSA spying scandal.

We should, er, seriously consider

not continuing...

Congresswoman Harman, let me interrupt you...

Congresswoman, let me interrupt you just for a moment.

We've got some breaking news out of Miami. Stand by if you will.

Right now, in Miami, Justin Bieber has been arrested

on a number of charges.

Yes, helpfully providing the second iconic image of 24 hours,

a less chirpy-looking Bieber showed up in a bizarre split-screen

live video feed from the courtroom, wearing Guantanamo fancy dress.

So the total bond would be 2,500.

2,500?

Jesus, he's going to have to work

for three or four whole picoseconds to earn that.

The charges are fairly serious,

so he could be looking at six months in jail.

So who's to blame for his transformation from irritant

to slightly different kind of irritant?

Some say the problem is his ever-present entourage.

They claim Bieber's surrounded by unsavoury characters

determined to get into his inner circle,

an experience that should prepare him nicely for life in prison.

The one thing everyone can agree on

is that young Bieber needs a firm role model,

so what sort of example were the adults of the media setting?

As the voracious coverage showed, as he walked free,

they were jostling for position, clambering over police cars

for a better shot until the cops yelled at them.

Hey! Get off the freakin' car!

While, back in the studio,

assorted jumped-up pundits fought like rats in a bag...

MAN DROWNED OUT BY WOMAN: He's 19 years old, I'm sorry.

He's not even went to school, he's home-schooled.

We have 18-year-olds who go and die for this country.

..or took the time to admonish him like disapproving surrogate parents.

He was spewing the F-bomb at police.

They even turned his health status into a clickbait voting game.

Do you think Justin Bieber should go to rehab?

Or at least have an intervention?

Go to our Twitter page and weigh in right now.

The concern spread to this side of the Atlantic,

as Daybreak's resident showbiz barnacle, Ross King,

a close friend of Justin's,

wasn't afraid to ask the tough questions,

even when they weren't relevant.

You have to question where the parents are in this whole situation,

but also bear in mind that Justin's mum was just 17

when she gave birth to Justin, so questions have to be asked.

Yeah, the main question I want to ask is,

what sort of weird hair colour is that, Ross?

What the f... have you been doing, dying it with Nescafe?

But the prize for most outraged pundit goes to this Brazilian anchor

who vividly demonstrated his disdain

by improving Bieber's latest CD with his foot.

HE SPEAKS IN PORTUGUESE

Obviously, it's hard to feel sympathetic

for a multi-millionaire pop star,

but imagine having Justin Bieber's life.

You're followed everywhere you go by intrusive news cameras

pornographically detailing your every encounter with scumbag paparazzi...

Fucking little cock!

..and whining teenagers shrieking your name,

and you have to keep those fickle teenagers happy by jigging about

in ghastly pop videos, belting out this god-awful shit

you probably grew out of a few years ago.

Everyone who isn't a teenage girl hates you

like you're a Nazi made out of spiders,

and, every time you look in the mirror,

Justin Bieber's staring back at you.

He sleeps with you, he eats with you,

you have to hear his thoughts. You even have to jerk him off.

And, on top of that, whenever you turn on the TV

there's a bunch of sanctimonious parasites on there

getting paid to bitch about what an arrogant, impulsive twat you are.

This is a case of too much money, too much stardom,

not enough rules and regulations.

He needs a time out, if not a spanking.

Ha-ha! Time out and a spanking!

If that was my life, I'd inject heroin into my eyes,

set the Lamborghini on fire

and deliberately drive it at 200mph into the first f...ing wall I saw.

But Justin Bieber didn't do that.

Which means, despite everything, he's still a pussy.

People don't pay attention to politics any more,

because it's not as interesting as, like, celebrity ski-jumping

or whatever, so it's hard for the parties to get publicity.

But there was this Lib Dem party who were so good at publicity

they could turn anything into a huge news story

and make sure their leader was all over the telly for days,

looking really commanding and in charge and that.

A challenge to Nick Clegg's authority as he faces a growing row

over the Liberal Democrat peer accused of sexual harassment.

'They had this Rennard man'

who looked a bit like Harold Bishop off Neighbours,

who stood around in photos dressed as Father Christmas,

and he was accused of doing all these inappropriate things,

which he denied.

Everyone wanted him to say sorry, but he reckoned he didn't have to,

so, instead, he expressed regret, which isn't quite the same,

and it caused this stupid stalemate.

Like, if he didn't want to say a full sorry, he could've said "soz",

which is sort of half-sorry.

That would've stopped the whole thing dead.

There was an inquiry, right,

which said that he probably hadn't done anything wrong,

and also that he probably had done something wrong.

So now they're having another inquiry.

I mean, it's good, because it keeps it going,

so we're all talking and thinking about it all the time,

which is great publicity for them.

I mean, I'd never even heard of the Literal Democrats before,

but now they've got all this coverage,

like, loads and loads of coverage.

It's really put 'em in the public eye.

Like, they'd probably do quite well if there was an election.

'The yellow party used to be thought of as all hippy,'

do-gooder people who eat whole-wheat cereal

and care about Syria and things, which was boring.

But now they're sort of more dangerous.

Like now, when you see their logo, you immediately think about

bad sex stuff, which is loads more interesting.

So they really stick in your head.

Nick Legg must be really pleased about that.

And just when you thought it was as creepy as it could get,

they found another one, who was accused of things he denied,

only this one looked a bit like all the Doctor Whos mixed together,

all sort of scruffy. And Nick Legg

seized that opportunity, too,

and made sure

that it was kept in the news as well.

Revealed, the e-mails and letters which pile more pressure

on Nick Clegg over the Lib Dem sex scandals.

The coverage was really in depth.

Basically, the Lib Dems must be really pleased

Nick Legg is their leader, because everybody's talking about them now.

And not just talking, but pointing...

and sort of whispering.

Now, the battle of the sexes. That can be unpleasant, can't it,

as anyone who's witnessed ITV's cheerfully gruesome Take Me Out will attest.

Let the tool see the box!

Don't worry if you couldn't bear a whole episode of Take Me Out,

because Mr Jake Yapp has distilled it's essence,

helpfully, into 94 mere seconds,

which we'll share with you now. Start the clock.

"Hello, and welcome to Take Me Out! I'm Paddy McGuinness,

"and I like to substitute meaningless catchphrases for humour.

"Let the thing like a penis see the thing like a vagina!

"I'll be back in a female eunuch. No likey, no lighty!

"It all sounds like a bit of harmless fun,

"like the broken English of a Thai prostitute.

"Bring on the girls! There's 30 of them,

"but don't worry, they're pretty much interchangeable.

"It's the fella we need to get to know, cos he's fascinating.

"Let the Emmeline Pankhurst see the underside of the grave!

"Time to point aggressively at the camera like I've got a point to make,

"and say, 'Single man, reveal yourself!'

"What do you do for a living, fella?" "I'm a policeman, Paddy."

"Wahey! Truncheon! What about you?"

"I'm a mechanic, Paddy." "Wahey! Spanner! What about you?"

"I'm a specialist renal pharmacist."

# All by myself... #

"Rooneyella, you've left your light on.

"Do you fancy him, or are you so conditioned into desperation

"that you'll pair off with any man, whatever the cost to your dignity?"

"Erm... Yeah. What?"

"Do you agree that this show sends the message

"that both genders should conform to a type

"and anyone outside those parameters is a deserved outcast?"

"Erm... Yeah, brilliant."

"Now, girls, as a sop to equality, you can turn your light on and off,

"but, fair dos, we'll give the final choice to the man,

"and, if you get picked, you'll be off to the Isle of Fernando's

"to eat...Nandos, and, if you're lucky,

"spend the night with some aftershave-drenched warthog

"pawing at your buttocks.

"See you next time for more chauvinist showbiz

"flogging culturally toxic condescending junk-food TV

"in a cynical that's-good-enough-for-them way.

"Oh, look, they're shagging on the bar!"

BOOZE! And, as pungent news reports reveal,

Britain's first motorway-based pub opens,

proving once and for all we don't live in a nanny state,

or indeed a state that wants to protect us at all.

It's the only pub in Britain where every pint

comes with a police car chaser.

From 9am till one in the morning, it'll provide relaxation,

pleasure, and a bit of welcome lubrication

for a constant stream of drivers and long distance truckers

at the Beaconsfield service station, just like your mum does.

Putting a pub on a motorway might sound irresponsible

but, as the news helpfully pointed out, they've taken precautions.

Unlike other pubs, it won't offer

any promotional deals on alcoholic drinks.

There are also a number of signs

warning about the dangers of drink-driving.

Oh, it's got signs. Well, signs are effective.

No driver's ever ignored a sign,

which is why there's been no speeding convictions since signs were invented.

The move sparked outrage

because no-one's ever seen a pub on a road before.

Think about it - you never have.

Most pubs are in the middle of a field, or at the bottom of the sea,

or up a stick.

As the news skilfully demonstrated,

many of the customers seemed pretty relaxed about it. Like you do in a pub.

You don't mind having a pint and driving on the motorway?

No, a pint is no problem, as far as I'm concerned.

I think it's well documented that you can certainly have a pint

without any trouble at all.

Oh, really? Well, in that case, pint of Scotch, please.

But other customers sounded less than delighted.

A pub on one of the main veins of the motorway systems

in Great Britain is just wrong, I'm afraid.

He's going to be furious when he turns round

and finds out he's in it.

The pub's been opened by Wetherspoon's,

and inquisitive reporters grilled one of their spokesmen.

Surely it is going to increase the risk of people drinking and driving?

Well, we don't believe that's the case.

Not everyone who goes there will be drinking and driving.

Some will be drinking and crashing.

If they have a pint, that's no different to them having a pint

and going to a local pub and then driving home elsewhere.

Yeah...at 70mph.

He also got a biblical bollocking from Eamonn Holmes.

You, in fact, are the devil in disguise.

You are offering temptation to everybody.

You're offering a scenario of Hell, basically, are you not?

To be fair, that does describe all branches of Wetherspoon's.

We don't believe in any way

we are encouraging people to drink. Far from it.

Far from it?! You've opened a pub, for f... sake.

You couldn't get further from "far from it"

if you drove the length of that motorway. Drunk.

There are some obvious plusses and minuses to a pub on the motorway.

On the downside, a driver might go in there, drink too much,

then cross the central reservation

and collide head-on with a coach-load of children and old folk.

But, on the upside, it's got a jukebox.

So, you know...

TWABUSE! And, as informative news reports reveal,

two Twitter trolls who sort of don't look real

are jailed for sending abusive and threatening tweets,

raising concerns as to whether this is really fair.

You're talking about people trapped in the fantasy world of the internet.

They can't deal with the outside world.

Look, one of them isn't even sure how doors work.

In the end, they received short sentences.

As does everyone on Twitter.

The debate intensified as football-star-turned-pundit

Stan Collymore accused Twitter of doing nothing to halt the foul abuse

he'd suffered after accusing a Liverpool player of diving.

He was especially shocked because, having spent much of his life

in football stadiums, he's never heard language like that before.

But soon he walked headlong into an abuse row of his own,

as his ex, Ulrika Jonsson, said his protestations were undeserved

and accused him of beating her up in a bar several years ago.

Collymore responded by saying he'd only hit her with an open hand,

as though that's the gentleman's method of woman-beating.

Still, at least he didn't blame her for not implementing a more efficient blocking policy.

SNOW! And, with the Winter Olympics just around the corner,

Channel 4 unleash the most thrilling support act imaginable, The Jump.

It's gripping proof that, after Splash!,

the relationship between celebrities and gravity has turned cold.

It's a bit like watching someone's skiing holiday slide show,

but without the bonus of being able to politely ask them to stop.

The show features a phalanx of frigid celebrities,

namely Lion-O, Paul McKenna,

Girl Band Unit 68G,

Canoe Man, '80s hit-maker Sinitta,

Fred off Scooby-Doo, Jaws from Moonraker, Pete Burns,

the woman who's usually on Don't Tell The Bride when I flick past it,

and her.

Most of the time they're not jumping but doing other winter sports,

like sliding on sticks, sliding side-to-side on sticks,

and sliding on tummies.

Basically, it's all on the slide.

It's pretty much a poor man's Splash!,

a statement that shouldn't even be possible.

It's like discovering you can divide by zero.

Most shows like this have a panel of judges to keep things interesting

with some bitchy feedback, but The Jump just has them doing things

against the clock, making time the only judge.

And time doesn't do sassy put-downs.

Apart from every day when you look in the mirror

and it spits in your face.

The Jump of the title is a ski jump

tantalisingly imposed on whoever performs worst

in each daily category, thereby guaranteeing danger.

But to helpfully counteract potential excitement

and entertainment, the jumps aren't quite as big as they look.

9.5m!

But even this small jump was too much for Amy Childs,

who merely squatted inertly at the top of the slope

looking like someone suffering a bout of constipation

in a reality show where stars sit up a hill and shit in a bucket.

She said she couldn't do it,

and I have a nasty feeling she's saying again, "Oh, no, I can't go."

Amy's refusal meant that if Sinitta was prepared to go down

she'd be on national TV the following night,

a proposal that's never been put to her before.

Channel 4 has broadcast more death-defying spectacles than The Jump

such as the frankly terrifying Don't Look Down,

which detailed the exploits of unhinged free urban climbers.

But the prize for truly nail-biting televised risk

has to go to America's Discovery Channel

and it's edge-of-the-seat live broadcast of Nik Wallenda

crossing the Grand Canyon on a tightrope.

But is it fair that such physical daredevilry is celebrated? Well, no,

in the personal view of US comedian and shambles Doug Stanhope,

who'll explain why now.

I'm Doug Stanhope, and that's why I drink.

It seems like the old-timey stunt shows of years gone by

have been reinvigorated and are making a comeback,

where you've got Nik Wallenda

tiptoeing across the Grand Canyon on a tightrope.

And he did it well. Almost too well,

to the point where it didn't even seem dangerous at all.

Which kinda sucked all the gas out of it.

If there's little or no entertainment value

other than just hoping that you die,

I might as well watch you walk down the highway,

and pray you get hit by a car.

And speaking of praying - oh, my God,

did you do a lot of praying out there, which the cameras caught,

every ten feet - you stoppin' to pray to Jesus.

Thank God you were miked up.

Oh, I praise you, Jesus.

Calm those winds in the name of Jesus.

Praise you, Jesus.

Yes, Jesus. Yes, Jesus.

While you were doing all that praying,

remember there were a million of us praying that you would fall

spread-eagle on your balls on the wire, spin upside down,

and cascade into the Colorado River,

where you would be nothing but catfish food.

Why is it your daredevil stunts get you all sorts of applause

and accolades? Why do the same rules not apply to me?

I take unnecessary risks with my own life all the time.

Usually with my brain and chemicals. I'm out doing mocaine in the desert.

Mocaine is when you grind up your mushrooms in a coffee grinder

and then chop them up with your cocaine.

And I wouldn't suggest that kids try that at home, either.

It's the worst mistake you'll ever make.

How is that any different than some asshole extreme sports douchebag,

"Oh, hey, Mount Hood has got a big, dangerous snowstorm coming in,

"so please don't go up there."

And you race up there on purpose and you get buried in an avalanche,

and, oh, God, the National Guard's out looking for you,

and everyone clears out of the bar and they're sticking pool cues

into snow banks, hoping to hit hot meat to save you.

I spin out in the middle of Death Valley on mocaine... Aargh!

No-one's coming to rescue me.

Am I heralded? No.

I'm looked at as a bad example for other people to learn from.

"Don't do that." Because you're an extreme guy,

and your adventure and daredevil antics, they give you rock-hard abs,

and what do I get on my adventure out on hallucinogens in the desert?

Nothing but maybe some deeper insight

and some empathy for the human condition.

And what's that worth, really? Not shit.

Trouble now, and I don't know if you've noticed

but Ukraine has descended into low-fi violence,

currently resembling an apocalyptic sci-fi thriller

made for a budget TV station.

Given the protesters' tactic of repeatedly banging more or less

anything even vaguely bangable,

sometimes it looked like a performance of Stomp

that had spiralled hopelessly out of control.

Overnight, they've burned a dozen or so police buses and trucks,

and, through the morning, the violence has continued.

Never mind Ukraine, it looks like Migraine over there.

Every piece to camera had percussion in the background.

There's bits of petrol bombs strewn all over the place.

-BANGING IN BACKGROUND

-It's quite quiet here at the moment.

Sorry, what? While the Ukrainian president,

played by William Shatner, went on TV to appeal for calm,

and some f...ing quiet,

protesters stopped banging stuff long enough to plunder history

for combat tips, constructing medieval shields,

building a wooden catapult,

and inviting priests in to stroll around the battlefield.

They're protesting because they want to be part of Europe.

By the looks of it, Europe during the 14th century.

Riot cops counteracted by re-enacting the Ancient Roman

centurion method of self-preservation.

Basically, the whole thing's like an extreme episode of Time Team.

The relentless banging is already getting results,

as the PM and government have resigned.

But amidst the violence, a moment of joy

as a couple got married on the barricades.

The proud groom explained they'd tied the knot

against this apocalyptic tableaux to show support, out of patriotism.

We love our country and we love each other.

Ahh. And, with that, the happy couple wandered off

to do the same thing as everyone else in Kiev,

ie, more banging.

Did you know it's 30 years since Apple unveiled the Macintosh computer,

with a famous cinematic commercial depicting a nightmare future

in which a mute population gawps, hypnotised, at giant screens?

Well, thanks in part to Apple, that chilling vision of the future

never arrived, and now their adverts depict a nightmare present

in which a mute population gawps, hypnotised, at LITTLE screens.

That's progress. Computers have altered everything, but how?

And why? And how again?

Don't try answering those questions yourself, no,

because Philomena Cunk is here to do that for you

in this week's Moments Of Wonder.

Computers are all around us,

in offices, computer shops,

and computer repair shops.

It's hard to think of anything that doesn't have a computer in it,

except cows. And they've probably got computers in them now.

Computers have become part of our culture.

Scenes like this are commonplace.

You have to ask the question, are we looking at the computers,

or are the computers looking at us?

Even though the answer to that question is obvious,

it sounds spooky.

The computer was invented by Charles Babbage in 1822.

But it didn't have a screen, so no-one knew what it was doing.

Konrad Zuse managed to invent a proper one in Germany in 1936,

but that one got bombed up by the British.

And that meant we could invent it first again,

thanks to a man called Alan Turing, here at Bletchley Parks in War Two.

Unlike today's computers, this early computer is made of transistors

and pipes. And, as you can see, it's absolutely huge.

And the mouse has gone missing, but...

it must've been the size of a car.

The invention of the computer was of primary benefit

to one particular group of people,

video game players.

Oh!

Until computers, they'd had to play the games using a pen and paper,

or coloured bits of dough.

A game of Pac-Man could take three days just to set up

if the peas kept rolling off the table.

The computer changed all that.

There's almost nothing a person can do that a computer can't,

except ride a horse.

So lots of jobs have been replaced by computers.

Perhaps one day we'll have a computer queen,

with the real Queen just used for the bits that are on a horse.

In the future, I'd be able to ask a computer about computers,

but, for now, I'll have to speak to a human who is an expert in computers.

So, are you a computer expert?

I'm Dr Sean Holden, and I'm a senior lecturer

in computer science at Cambridge University.

Will there ever come a time when we need two mouses

to work a computer?

I don't think so. I think it's more likely that there'll be a time

when you don't need any mouses.

Things are moving now towards touchscreens,

gesture recognition, brain-computer interfaces.

So what's that?

It's where you can sense, to an extent,

-what someone is thinking.

-Like Derren Brown?

-Not as well as that.

-Right.

-Not yet, anyway.

Paul McKenna?

You might be able to make the cursor, the mouse pointer,

-go left or right.

-Just by thinking, "Go right"?

-Yeah.

That's about where the technology is.

How can it do that, how will it know? I don't understand.

It's possible to get some information about what your brain

-is doing by things like encephalograms.

-Encephalo-what?

Encephalograms.

-Say it again.

-Encephalograms.

-Say it again.

-Encephalograms.

-Right.

So you can get some information about what your thoughts are doing

through that kind of interface,

which maybe means just sticking electrodes on your head

at the moment, but it's early days.

That's amazing, isn't it? Would you get one of those?

-Yeah, why not.

-Yeah, why not.

Alan Turing, the weird man who discovered computers,

is now a national hero,

and people queue for ages to touch the Turing Shroud.

There are even computers made of cloud now.

What next? A computer you can eat, or fight?

Computer music?

Who knows?

It's enough to make you...wonder.

Next time on Moments Of Wonder,

I'll be asking where your lap goes when you stand up.

TAG-NUTS! And, in a series of patronising ads,

a bog-roll maker

revamps its doomed bid to convince Brits to buff

their balloon knots clean with fancy damp paper.

It's a moist toilet tissue, FYI.

It's not FYI, it's FYA.

To spread the word about the soggy bumrag,

Ginger Spice drops in on lunching folk

and tries to put them off their food by talking skid marks.

I want you to go away and try these and let me know how you get on.

Then, one week later, she's back to see how they got on.

One week? That was a big shit.

-Tell me all about it.

-I was really surprised how fresh it made me feel.

Actually, I felt a lot cleaner.

Sorry, I don't believe you actually used them.

Come on, pop your rings out. Inspection time.

-And they're flushable.

-It's a game-changer.

Game-changer? What sort of sick game involves wiping your arse?

Cleaning the nation from the bottom up!

That'll be unhygienic by the time she gets to the mouth.

Compensation! And a range of personal injury lawyers

shill their wares with happy scenes in which an innocent victim

wins the justice lottery, and can't help busting some moves.

Oh, isn't it great to see him so happy after that debilitating back injury?

It's almost like it never happened.

Weirdly, tennis whizz Andrew Castle pops up at the end

to congratulate the man in person.

That's what justice feels like.

Dunno what Andrew Castle's got to do with completely above-board legal practices.

I mean, all he really knows about is RACKETS.

But they're not the only ones making a song-and-dance about cash for crutches.

There's another gleeful ad with a similarly gleeful tone.

# Let me tell you 'bout an accident I had

-# It wasn't nice

-# It was quite bad

-# It made me feel

-# It made him sad

Well, at least it hasn't affected your ability to irritate.

Incredibly, it seems every other prick in his hometown's suffered

some kind of personal injury, but they seem weirdly happy about it.

I can't imagine why.

£2,000 upfront? Cool!

That's nothing, I've just won four grand for the emotional distress

caused by this bumwash.

You know, looking at the elaborate musical numbers in these adverts,

I can't help wondering if one of the dancers has ever sprained an ankle

on a kerbstone or something and lobbed in a compo claim.

Cos that'd be a real tragedy.

Well, that's about all we've got time for this week.

Until next time, go away.