I had slagged this off when it was on E4, but Chav 4 evidently feel the need to inflict it on a wider audience.
For those who were spared the first time around, Skins is the televisual equivalent of hosing yourself in excrement.
The big pre-publicity hype was that it's "you, know, like, real", because the writing team are barely in their twenties. It certainly has the feel of a student drama workshop, with no cliché left unused - Ferris Bueler is present as the central character, sadly his charm isn't; there's a terribly contrived Risky Business pastiche where a stolen car ends up in a river; and a 'crazy' drug dealer, straight out of Rules of Attraction. If it had been channelled directly from Paul Dacre's fevered imagination it couldn't have been less real.
What is completely absent from this after-school playwriting club is any decent adult supervision. Someone to take the essence from their little dreams of cool, and actually turn it into something worth watching. Which is bizarre, since the producer is Bryan Elsley. Who, many, many years ago when Channel 4 was a credible broadcaster gave us the warm and funny Young Person's Guide to Becoming a Rockstar. Sadly this is more Middle-aged Writer's Wank Fantasy. With the lingering shots of teens in their underwear raising it from the crass to the icky.
I'm 'up North', enjoying the colourful local charm:
Cabby "so what team you support?"
Me "........"
Cabby ".......! They're shite!"
The prospect of a tip not looking too promising at this point
Cabby "my Probabtion Officer supported '.......', he got stabbed"
Me "and you follow?"
Cabby "United!"
Me "you're a long way from Guildford then aren't you?"
and, sadly, this stimulating badinage is curtailed by our arrival at the destination. And perhaps it is a good thing. For, if one were to choose the location of one's passing, it wouldn't be in the back of a Fiat Multipla, accompanied by the aroma of pie and stale vomit.
And the destination is the offices of our supplier. And it's downhill form here. Their Sales Director is a fuckwit. His sole purpose seems to be to visit fuckwittery on all in the vicinity. He spends the morning coffee break treating us to his views on the postal strike, which do involve 'sending in the army'. He's pre Big Bang, which is rare to see these days. He's from an age where sole criteria for getting a contract was that you'd buggered a chaps brother at boarding school. And I didn't, and I don't believe my MD did either - so he's misjudging his audience.
And his team are little better. The lead salesman mumbles through his presentation, fixated on his shoes. The techie is so nervous, he completely dries; and he's stood their gulping like a landed fish, whilst the Sales Director looks blithely on. Eventually we have to step in and get him a glass of water, or we'd still be there.
Mercifully we break for lunch. Note 'break for lunch', not 'lunch arrives' - because it doesn't. We're planning to pay these guys tens of millions for the IT contract. Not being able to get a plate of sandwiches to the right room, at the right time, doesn't inspire confidence.
And do they fill these awkward moments keeping us entertained with a little small talk? No, they do not, they take the opportunity to update their Blackberries. They're sitting there round the table, checking their emails, while we're starring at the walls.
At this point, my boss just gets up and walks - which I've got to give him credit for. I stay, dragging one of them away from some vitally important youtube clip in his inbox; and get a tour. Which actually pisses me off more.
'cause they're crap - operationally. They've got a similar set-up to ours, and they're rubbish at it. Despite the fact that, I assume, they actually give a fuck, and are working hard it - I'm running an operation which is at least twice as efficient. And that pisses me off; not because they're crap, but because I'm not - and I'm not getting the love for it.
In the city there's a thousand men in uniform: baggy shorts and a faded t-shirt from some imagined truck-stop or diner. And as it's far too hot for beanies, last year's trilby's and straw hats to conceal the thinning pate.
That's excepting the ones who are dressed as Johnny Borrell. Johnny Borrell???? What could possess a man to ape the sartorial misadventures of a 24 carat twunt like Borrell.
Anyway. We're at 1234 Shoreditch. A little free festival in the East End. And it's not at all a bad way to spend a Sunday. Albeit in the slightly mixed company of Shoreditch twats and honest to goodness East End parklife.
And there's some pretty good stuff on offer. The Weekender Records tent showcases their roster, and is, on the whole, a little commercial for my tastes, but they're clearly pushing the right buttons. Subliminal Girls one of the better offerings, if only for their track Mirror, ripping into the local victims. There's not a pair of skinny jeans in the tent by the end of it.
The Sensitive Youth stage has more to see, including the potentially excellent Pull in Emergency. Potentially excellent, as they, or Mute, have yet to realise that their jailbait lead singer should be on bass, and the bassist should be upfront. But, since they're about 14, they've got time to learn.
On the main stage, Tiger Force charm me with their edgy boy/girl combo that takes me back to Adult. And then, somewhat bizarrely at a free festival in a public park, we have Selfish C**t. Which might seem a bold choice for a mid-afternoon slot. And across the site, children turn to their parents in varying states of bewilderment and distress, asking "mommy, why has Mika gone emo?". It's a tiresome performance which proves once again that you can take the boy out of Hoxton, but we'd really rather you didn't.
Neils Children, back on the Sensitive Youth stage have the best turned out fans
But are frankly ill mannered themselves. Getting stroppy with the stage crew is not big, and it's not clever. It's indulged from the next big thing; but almost rans like Neils Children might consider being a bit more civil; they're going to need some references for those call centre jobs they're going to be getting.
I make my excuses and leave before Har Mar Superstar, I've seen pop's own Ron Jeremy before, and a little of the 'warthog of love' goes a long way.
(totally gratuitous photograph, solely included to show off the fact my phone can upload gps data to google earth)
Which is where indietracks starts to differ slightly from other festivals. No traipsing across muddy fields with a wheelbarrow here; you travel from the carpark, to the festival site, by steam train.
All of which is the brainchild of Stuart, a guy who likes trains, and likes twee. Who went to a few club nights, met some people, and decided "hey, let's do the show right here": at the Midland Railway, Butterley.
Which means the main stage is, quite literally, a shed.
Here playing host to the rather excellent Chiara L's. Who are not in the least bit twee. And, if I were still working on a label, would now have a record deal.
So, catering by Marge and Beryl at the station buffet bar. A total crowd of about 200 - of the twee-est indie wonks you'd find outside of a Sarah Records fan club. 40 of the most winsomely fey glock botherers to ever form bands. And the regular weekend crowd of trainspotters and families who are there at the railway museum anyway.
We have a great opportunity today to really achieve something positive. We can look back in years to come and say this was the day where we made a start; this was our first step to Make Geldof History.....
