Third Roommate came over last night, you know, to hog the remote and annoy me.
And maybe to keep me company on a dark and stormy night.
I forced him to watch Top Billing. Well, no, that is inaccurate. I didn't actually force his eyballs to rest on the TV screen, but I was adamant we were going to watch something of culture for a change. No more stupid American game shows to while away the time, or "A RedNeck Ate My Baby & Boofed My Father," as so explicit on Jerry Springer.
"Let's see how the other side live. In their capitalist splendour. Let's watch Top Billing."
He resisted. Strongly.
I hate to admit it, but the little Portuguese man who drinks all my Oros and makes himself all too at home, may have had a very valid point.
“This is having a negative effect on my intellect,” he whined.
"A Michael Mol moment. He describes a "building" as a statuesque acropolis. People haven't spoken like that since the Stone Ages.”
It was more fun watching my friend react to Michael Mol in his waistcoat and spewing forth gumptions of 'good life' jargon.
“How can these presenters be so banal? Ooh thanks Top Billing for making this all possible, by making us look so put on and pretending to be happy!” he continued.
He really was beginning to make a point.
When I watch this with my mother, I knew it was a load of decor-infused pants, but, and maybe it was this week's episode - it was full of crap.
The programme is full of shit.
For instance, they documented Mark Fish's new Tuscan splendour. Yellow, wrought iron, pillars, the usual scourge one finds in a Dainfern catalogue, for instance.
This might've been the nail that drummed itself into its own coffin. Usually they choose anitiquitan masterpieces...what the fuck was this? Replete with ornaments from the Cape Town flea market. And let's not forget the Egyptian couches. What a treat. Black and gold. Gilted.
3RM was an unhappy little man for an hour, whining and groaning in disbelief.
But I figured he made me watch The Biggest Loser once, a show resplendent of the opposite side of this televised LSM scale, I'd force him to watch this trite little magazine programme.
Featuring Whitey Basson (CEO of Shoprite) on his silly little ranch, waxing lyrical the pleasures of being a South African. Well sure. Under your summer gazebo drinking wine and eating Woolies food, it's all good isn't it. And so ridiculously put on. Don't for a second say he buys his chops from the Shoprite butchery.
Then the presenters went to Greece. And found the Jimmy Choo of Athens. Some Stavros that crafts Jesus Christ sandals.
3RM was about to chew his arm off in frustration. Until he watched something about tanning hides. Where the producer was asking of the left over hide water, “is this snot or floculant?” Over and over again. Because bodily nasal fluids need to be defined.
I preferred seeing Michael Mol in a ridiculous little pink suit, actually.