Room For Any More? (Room 101)

Member Name: stoffy

Product:	Room 101
Date:	29/03/02 (116 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: er, none?

Disadvantages: things we could all do without...

Having resisted the temptation for so long, I think it’s time for my two cents in casting my votes for Room 101…

Corporate umbrellas:

You know the ones. Big enough to fit all the inhabitants of small African countries underneath them, ready to mercifully poke out the eyes of anyone over 5”6 with their sharp metal prongs of wrath. The owner will usually be besuited, usually a lawyer or insurance broker, and will hold up the umbrella in all types of weather, just to advertise their slogan: (“we’re your number one for accidents” the brolly will state ironically as it gouges out your eyeball leaving you in a pool of your own blood and confusion). When it’s raining in Manchester, I feel it would be safer lying in the road in front of oncoming traffic that walking down the street for fear of being injured. Away with thee!!

Insurance adverts:

OK, so you’ve been spiked by a corporate umbrella - what are you going to do about it? Well, if the recent crop of insurance adverts are anything to go by, you’ll probably bitch to your partner over an MFI pine table and then pick up the phone to see if you can sue someone about it. Naturally, it will take approximately 3 seconds for the person at the other line to put a smile on your face. No, you haven’t just been told that you’re entitled to thousands of pounds of compensation, you’re being told that “it’s very warm in here, I think I should take some clothes off. What’s your name? I’m Petula, I’m feeling…”. When you dial the right number, your face turns to misery as, unlike every 2.4 family that appears in the adverts, the operators seem less than happy to help, and tells you after being placed on hold for 20 minutes that the only thing you’re entitled to is to count yourself lucky that the umbrella didn’t have a poisonous tip. If the ads are going to be misle
ading, they should at least be entertaining so you can laugh as you console yourself that you’re not going to strike it rich because of your misfortune…

Daytime chat-shows:

After your partner finds that you’ve been making lots of calls to Petula, you may want to salvage your relationship on a chat show. However, you will have to fulfil certain criteria. Firstly, you must own a shell-suit (if you are male) or leggings (if you are female). If any of these garments are fluorescent or leopard skin – well done, you’ve made it onto Kilroy. However, to worship at the altar of Trisha, you must pass two more tests. You must either have a) a long lost relative that you really want to be reunited with, or b) some kind of inter-family adultery, AND have delinquent children who are “out of control”. If you make the grade, you may spill your beans, blood and guts to Norwich’s incarnation of Boutros Boutros Gali.

Celebrities with perma-tans:

Talking of Kilroy, the orange celebrity should also be cast aside. There are several who are guilty of crimes against nature’s distribution of melanin, including Richard Madeley, Peter Stringfellow and Bob Monkhouse. Whether it’s the result of intense sun-bedding or the twelve-week trips to Honolulu, my Mum always told me that too much orange made me hyperactive. However, I might have misunderstood what she said, as I’ve never felt the need to cartwheel to the theme tune of ‘This Morning’ or climb up the walls whilst watching ‘Wipeout’. I actually feel more like crying as Monkhouse cracks another one of his mother-in-law jokes, causing me to imagine what I’d do with just me, him and a Wipeout paperweight in a locked room…

Cookery shows on TV:

Until we get steamed Monhouse rather than steamed monkfish, I think that all cooking shows should be banished. Most people can boil an eg
g without the use of rocket, cranberries or lower fat malarky, and I don’t want to listen to chill-out music whilst Gary Rhodes drizzles caramel sauce over a pudding. Oh, and memo to Nigella: Best get your barnet tied back while you cook – you don’t want your important bourgeois guests choking on your hair whilst their supping their fondue…

Hairdressers:

Maybe Nigella’s got the same fear that I have – going to the hairdressers. I’m not sure whether it’s the heady mix of gel and body odour that I find nauseating, or the local commercial radio station pumping out chart hits and cheap conservatory adverts omnipresently in the background. I’m not even sure that it’s the fact that you can only read a two-week old copy of ‘The Sun’ or ‘Auto Express’ or that it always takes so damn long to get into the barber’s seat. I think it just has to be the inane banter, revolving around holidays, going out and occupations. No, I don’t want to talk about the pros and cons of the Canary Islands, and how your cousin Margaret is allergic to Lanzarote, I just want you to cut my hair. If there are any deaf-mute hairdressers out there, you’ve won yourself another customer…

‘The Sun’:

No, not the thing in the sky, but the thing in the gutter. Thriving on contradictions like juxtaposing an article condemning paedophiles with a topless 16 year old ‘lovely’, it has managed to make this country a more unpleasant place, filled with prejudice and hatred. Some of the articles are so right-wing and prejudiced, it makes Maggie Thatcher look like Neil Kinnock. I wouldn’t even wrap me ‘Monkhouse and chips’ with it…

Political musicians:

There was once upon a time when politicians like Maggie and Neil were the only people to talk politics. Now we have a music industry churning out soap
box wannabes. Bono is the worst offender, with his political quests to sell as much Irish soft-rock as he can. His inclusion of footage of people from third-world countries in U2’s expensive videos as an audience conscience-pricking exercise, seems to be a weeny bit hypocritical. Talking of which, Phil Collins’s effort ‘Another Day In Paradise’, should really have had the taste police batter his ivory tower down with an axe of some kind. Stick to songs about ‘love’ and ‘emotion’ why don’t you?


I think I’d best wrap this rant up, as I’m slightly concerned that one of Bob Monkhouse’s close friends or relatives might have read this, and be in the process of calling the police. At least it would be a story to tell my hairdresser though…

Summary: