THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "FIRST DATES" (AGAIN …)

Ah, "First Dates," Channel 4's delightful foray into the romantic misadventures of the Great British public, a show which proves that love, much like the British weather, can be unpredictable, often damp, but occasionally glorious. 

The premise is simple: bring together two strangers, sprinkle in some luxury cuisine and a bit of alcohol, and watch as they navigate the treacherous waters of first impressions at what is billed as the UK's most romantic restaurant. The result? A concoction of cringe, charm, disappointment, friend-zoning, and occasionally chemistry, that often appeals more to the nihilistic cynic than the hopeless romantic.

The setting, The Anthology in Manchester, is less a temple of gastronomy and more an altar to the gods of awkwardness. Here, under the guise of fine dining, we witness the human soul laid bare, often in the most unflattering of ways. The camera, ever the silent voyeur, captures moments where you can't help but wish for a national grid blackout to save everyone involved.

Our charming host, professional Frenchman Fred Sirieix, the maître d' with an eye for match-making, and his team, are the shepherds of this human zoo. Fred, with the joie de vivre of a man who has undertaken years of training in order to know just the precise moment to offer a second bottle of wine, guides our daters through their evening with a mix of encouragement and the subtle hint that perhaps, just perhaps, a second date might be in the stars, given the irony with which the participants are paraded through the restaurant to their table like planets in a solar system of self-doubt.

The participants themselves range from the charmingly naïve to the brazenly confident, from the utterly petrified to the narcissistically arrogant, each episode serving up a veritable smorgasbord of human quirks. One such episode featured a man whose muscles were so big, he looked like a brown condom stuffed full of walnuts and whose ego was so large, he probably thought the Big Bang was just the universe making room for him. His date was a Kim Kardashian lookalike who had hair so black and suspiciously perfect, it might as well have been a wig for all the authenticity it conveyed, draped over eyes that were not so much windows to her soul, but more like portals to his bank account.

There's also the poor chap who genuinely believes his love of model railways is the key to any woman's heart, the lady who thinks sharing a love for extreme ironing might just be the foundation of a lifelong romantic pair bond, and the Doctor Who fan convinced that quoting a line from the third episode of a Jon Pertwee serial from 1972 will have a line of Playboy models queuing up around the block to have his babies. It's a parade of hopes, dreams, and occasionally, the kind of revelations that make you want to hide behind your sofa.

One suspects that, if he were still with us, Clive James would have relished the poetry of these seemingly ordinary lives, the way the show illuminates the universal quest for connection amidst the absurdity of modern dating. It's rather like watching a live-action version of a Jane Austen novel, albeit if Mr. Darcy had been more interested in discussing his gluten intolerance than his estates.

In essence, "First Dates" is a mirror held up to society, reflecting our deep-seated desire for companionship, our fears, our foibles, and yet, our relentless optimism. It's a programme that, in its own slightly madcap way, celebrates the human condition, providing both solace and schadenfreude in equal measure. I must confess, watching this show is like eating a whole box of Quality Street; delightful at first, but by the end, you're questioning your life choices.

In the end, we're all just searching for a bit of meaning, whether we find it in a love story on TV or the stars above. So, dear reader, whether you're in search of love or merely a good old sneer at the expense of others, "First Dates" offers a spectacle where the heart might not always find what it seeks, but the viewer is sure to find entertainment, if not love, in all its bizarre and beautiful forms, on Channel 4.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE REVIEWS: "THE MASKED SINGER"

"The Masked Singer", a program that has migrated from the far reaches of South Korea to grace the shores of Britain and America, demonstrating that in the global village, even the most outlandish formats can find a home. It's a singing contest where celebrities don the most extravagant get-ups since the days of medieval masquerades, only with a dash more sequins and a lot less subtlety.

The premise is straightforward, yet cunningly addictive: ten celebrities, week by week, sing their hearts out, their identities concealed beneath costumes that could have been designed by a committee consisting of Salvador Dalí, the Pet Shop Boys, and a particularly flamboyant Muppet. The audience, along with a panel of judges who seem to have been chosen for their capacity to be both simultaneously bewildered and amusing, must guess who these vocal talents are. The show is, if nothing else, a testament to the human love for mystery, even when the mystery is as thin as the fabric of some of these outfits.

The costumes themselves are a sight to behold. One might think they've wandered into a fever dream where animals have not only gained the ability to sing but also a penchant for haute couture. There's a chameleon, not in the traditional sense of blending in, but rather standing out in a way that would make Liberace blush. A peacock, perhaps, strutting about with all the pomp of a royal parade, or a monster that looks like it escaped from a 1980's crisp commercial, but somehow learned to carry a tune, albeit firmly ensconced in the deepest, darkest bottom of a bucket. 

The judges, themselves a motley crew of media personalities, contribute to the spectacle with their guesses, which range from the vaguely plausible to the patently absurd. One can almost see the wheels turning, or not turning, as the case may be, in their heads when they try to match voice to celebrity. It's all part of the charm, or the chaos, depending on how one views the relentless cheerleading and the occasional descent into what can only be described as educated guesswork on par with "Through The Keyhole".

The performances themselves vary. You have moments where you're genuinely impressed by the vocal prowess hidden beneath the mask, leading to that thrilling moment when the mask comes off and you think, "Ah, of course, it was him/her all along!" Or, there are times when the singing is less about the quality and more about the spectacle - a sort of karaoke elevated to a television event.

But let's not be too harsh. "The Masked Singer" isn't here to challenge the vocal cords of Montserrat Caballé or the lyrical genius of Bob Dylan. It's here for the pure, unadulterated fun of it all. It's a colourful, noisy, and occasionally tuneful distraction from the more grave matters of our times. In a world where we're being constantly bombarded by news of crises and calamities, there's something to be said for a show where the biggest drama is whether the Hippo will out-sing the Unicorn.

In conclusion, "The Masked Singer" is a testament to the enduring human need for spectacle, for laughter, and for the occasional mystery solved in the most public of manners. Like all good entertainment, it doesn't take itself too seriously, and perhaps that's its greatest strength. It's a show that, while clearly not existing to enact the elevating the art of television, certainly adds a splash of colour to its palette. One might say, it's the televisual equivalent of a Brazilian carnival - not one you'd visit for high art, but one where you can't help but enjoy the ride.

THE RANTING BRUMMIE ON 2024

The year 2024, a period in which human folly reached new heights—or should I say, plummeted to new depths - served as a testament to the enduring spirit of humanity, especially in the face and spirit of absurdity. It was a year of a veritable parade of human ingenuity, where we all collectively decided that if we couldn't make things better, we could at least make them more ridiculous.

First, we had the elections, a global carnival of democracy where the voters, ever the masochists, were left with the unenviable task to choose between potential leaders either with the charisma of a damp rag and the moral fibre of a chocolate éclair whose primary qualification was their ability to look confused in front of a camera. Kamala Harris promised to solve homelessness by giving everyone a free tent and a map to a nearby woods, after taking over the Democratic nomination from Joe Bien, who had promised to solve climate change by issuing a stern tweet at the sun. Meanwhile, Donald Trump promised to end poverty by suggesting everyone should just "try being rich". Trump, in true reality TV fashion, clinched a second non-consecutive term in the White House, proving once again that politics is just another form of entertainment.

In the UK, the political landscape was so bleak, you'd think the weather had finally won. The new PM, Sir Kier Starmer, elected on a platform of "vagueness with a hint of confusion," pledged to solve the housing crisis by suggesting everyone should just share beds in shifts. Starmer managed to make the country's exit from the European Union look like a masterclass in organized chaos. Brexit was finally "done," in the sense that it was now an ongoing, perpetual motion machine of bureaucratic bungling. The grand plan for Brexit was to keep on "exiting" until everyone forgot what it was they were actually exiting from in the first place.

This year, economic analysts predicted a boom in toilet paper stocks due to the sheer volume of crap we were dealing with. But, in a twist no one saw coming, the market was flooded when it was revealed that most of what was being produced was actually being used by politicians for their speeches. The result? A toilet paper surplus so vast, we started using it as currency in some places, leading to the world's most embarrassing inflation.

In Europe, the political scene was a comedy of errors where leaders competed to see who could ignore the climate crisis the most creatively. One suggested a "carbon footprint reduction" strategy that involved everyone moving to the moon, because, clearly, space is the new green. On the international stage, summits turned into stand-up comedy shows where world leaders took turns promising peace while secretly plotting to outdo each other in hypocrisy. The UN became a platform for nations to compete in the "Least Action, Most Talk" awards, where the winner was the country that could say "we're doing something" with the straightest face, while doing absolutely nothing.

In health news, we saw a surge in diseases we didn't know we had until influencers told us about them on social media. "Chronic Instagramitis" became a real thing, characterized by the inability to post without a filter, leading to a national shortage of duck faces. Meanwhile, the latest health craze was "quantum detoxes," where people paid top dollar to sit in dark rooms, convinced they were expelling negative energy. Spoiler: it was just gas.

On the technological front, AI continued its inexorable march towards rendering humans irrelevant, except, of course, for providing the raw material of human error for AI to correct. We saw the launch of "AI Politician 3000," which was so advanced it could predict when you were going to sneeze but couldn't understand why humans continue to elect absolute clowns, and although it was unable to lie convincingly, it at least managed to mimic human indecision with startling accuracy. One AI even ran for office in a mock election, proving to be more honest than most human candidates, though, tragically, it lacked the essential trait of all great politicians: the ability to lie with a smile. 

So-called "Smart Homes" got smarter, the only difference being your refrigerator now being capable of arguing with you about your choice of breakfast cereal while your toaster judges your life choices. Space exploration took a hilarious turn when Elon Musk announced the first Martian housing development. The catch? No gravity meant your furniture floated, leading to the world's most expensive game of "catch the sofa." The first homeowners association meeting was held in zero gravity, where everyone agreed on one thing: no more floating pizza parties.

The entertainment industry, never one to be outdone in the stakes of surrealism, gave us films where the premises were so convoluted, they made quantum physics look like a nursery rhyme. One particular blockbuster involved time-traveling dinosaurs who, for reasons left unexplained, were running for mayor of New York. We were treated to films that had budgets larger than some countries' GDPs for stories less believable than a politician's promise, where the plot was so thin you could read a newspaper through it. Reality TV shows continued to show us that the only reality was how low humanity could go. One show, "Who Wants to Be a Political Figure?" featured contestants doing absolutely nothing for weeks, mirroring actual politicians rather accurately, as well as "Survivor: The Office," where contestants competed to see who could stay awake the longest during a Zoom meeting. 

Environmental news was dominated by the Great Barrier Reef's latest press release, stating it was considering moving to the moon for a better chance at survival. This, after the ocean temperatures decided to flirt with the boiling point, leading to a new trend of having more "Green Fridays," where everyone wore green to work, completely ignoring the fact that their commute involved fossil-fuelled vehicles. Climate change, in response, decided to escalate from "annoying" to "apocalyptic," but hey, at least we got some great social media posts out of it. 

And in the realm of culture, we witnessed the phenomenon of "quiet quitting" evolve into "silent resigning," where people simply forgot to show up to work, hoping their absence would be taken as an artistic statement on the nature of employment in the late capitalist era. "Art" simply became whatever you could sell to someone with more money than taste, which culminated in the art world embracing "conceptual nothingness," where the concept was to charge exorbitant prices for absolutely nothing. One artist sold an empty gallery space for millions, arguing that the art was "the absence of art itself."

And so, as 2024 fades into the annals of history, we're left with the bitter realization that our political leaders have turned governance into an art form of incompetence. Here's to 2025, where we can only hope the political jabs become less satire and more reality check. But let's be honest, that's probably as likely as finding integrity in a politician's soul.

Happy New Year Everyone !!