The revolution should be televised

Posted by in December's Magazine

Christmas telly is now dog shit rolled in tinsel. Time for a yuletide revolution, says Colin Montgomery

If they could bottle nostalgia, the poppy fields would wither and die. I mean, who would need to surf the opioid waves, when the warm rush of selective memory gets to work? Memory Lane would be our shooting gallery – our Muirhouse, our West Granton, our Wester Hailes…all rolled into one. No spoon-burning, filthy contaminated works or local heavies to worry about. It’s odourless. It’s invisible. It’s free…well sort of (it does come with its own price). And the best gear comes to us from December’s crop. Ah, December…. 


Colin’s advent calendar from 1975, thank you eBay

It starts with the advent calendar. Well it did for us back then. No chocs or novelty mind (mother was a Church of Scotland elder don’t you know). T’was your standard nativity gig with the anointed one, regal retinue and holy menagerie. The shoddy clip art wasn’t the big thrill, it was the counting down – I should have worked at NASA. But full blast-off wasn’t achieved until you hit the week before the big day itself. For that period from around the 16th or 17th onwards was stuffed full like some scrawny gobbler with the finest telly in the land. It was real slobber-worthy stuff. We had the Radio Times laminated in our household.

That may seem downright unhinged to your average twitching greeb today. Flicking away at their phones. Bumping into lampposts. LOLing and LMAOing through life. They can barely concentrate hard enough to have a wank. 

We were a stoical generation who could endure hours of a catatonic girl with a clown puppet teaching us algebra, and pictures of a kitten with Scottish dance music playing over it. Hear that you scrotes? Not a fecking app or console in sight! Three channels and the ‘national’ anthem at the end of the night! Are you hard enough?! Eh? Eh? But to be fair, these deprivations were all forgiven come Christmas. 

We had hour long Christmas light entertainment specials alongside classic movies, some of them as recent as four or five years ago. I remember fainting at the prospect of Herbie hitting the tube; I was brought round with some Cremola Foam and a Wagon Wheel. Cartoons on tap – I bet Glen Michael’s nose was right out of joint: Paladin probably got both barrels. 

I remember fainting at the prospect of the film Herbie hitting the TV screen; I was brought round with some Cremola Foam and a Wagon Wheel

Plus the gash novelty-riddled Top of the Pops with your paedophile DJ of choice! A feast that would shame the ending of a Dicken’s novel. You could plan your festive snowballs round it. I say snowballs, but they were normally stony ice balls in my street, studded with gravel. Kids do the funniest things.

“So, Christmas telly was great back in the day. And it’s crap now. Or so you claim, Col. Enough already. I’ve got a box set to watch,” and so on. Well, piss off and binge then. But just be aware that while your arse is whispering sweet nothings to Mr Sofa, you’ll be missing out on a TV revolution that will start right here, at least, in theory. We just need to fire this magazine to all of the UK’s major terrestrial television channels and ensure the top bods at programming read it. What could be simpler? Yes, here it is people, the sort of dream schedule that only a merciless and capricious deity could resist. And before I zip through it, I offer symbolic royalties to the genius of Charlie Brooker’s TV Go Home. Charlie. I thank you. 

Friday 20th December, 7:45pm

David Copperfield’s Disappearing Topper

Bouffant Vegas mountebank, Copperfield, is sat atop a 40ft wand, with no ladder, as all of his worldly belongings are made to magically disappear in front of his very eyes; all tipped into an incinerator shaped like a golden top hat, including pets and his autographed rings. Will he take the plunge to join his goods and chattels? Or will he settle for a vertical sob? 

Saturday 21st December, 10.30pm

Prince Andrew 2: Trapped in Central Park

Following the success of the adrenaline-fuelled fun ride that was ‘Prince Andrew 1: Spunking Other People’s Money’, things take a darker turn in this gritty sequel. The dundering boorish sociopath gets lost in NYC’s famous green zone and is fired upon from the vantage points of surrounding skyscrapers by dead-eyed teenage girls, wearing I ♠ JEFFREY T-shirts. 

Monday 23rd December, 5.25pm

Ray Winstone Punches a Fox

Ray Winstone punches a fox. 

Tuesday, Christmas Eve, 9.02pm

Nigel Der Ubertwat Farage Swallows Gold 

An homage to John Heartfield’s iconic Dadaist poster, ‘Adolf Der Ubermensch’, which ripped Hitler a new one. We recreate it but with Home Counties Poujadist, Nigel Farage, sitting on a shoogly branch above a vat of steaming rat diarrhoea, being force-fed golden Brexit guineas by a Boris Johnson impersonator, until the weight of his avarice sees him fall.

Wednesday, Christmas Day,3pm

The Queen’s Beach

Lingering shot of a private beach in a tax haven, where the crystal azure waters lap gently; far, far, away from this shitstorm of inequality, poisonous populist dog-whistling and general fuckwittery. Land of Hope and Glory is played out on coconut shells while a hedge fund manager dry humps a sand sculpture of a screaming pleb face. For ever. And ever. 

Anyway… Merry Christmas folks.

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