The weekky entertainment round-up.

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🎤 “Right, listen up you cultural sponges  it’s been a week of telly so baffling it could’ve been written by a committee of lobotomised ferrets with access to a vape pen and a copy of Heat magazine from 2007. First up, Strictly Come Dancing!  or as I call it, ‘Sequins and Screaming’  where minor celebrities are flung about like damp laundry by professional dancers who look like they’ve been genetically engineered in a lab that only plays Pitbull remixes. One bloke did a samba so violent it triggered my Alexa, my pacemaker, and a flashback to the time I tried Zumba in a church hall and dislocated my dignity.

Meanwhile, Bake Off continues its descent into flour-based madness. One contestant made a croquembouche so tall it interfered with air traffic control, while another tried to reinvent the Victoria sponge using beetroot, despair, and a vague memory of what sugar tastes like. Paul Hollywood stared at it like it owed him money, and Prue Leith made noises only audible to bats and people who own Aga cookers.

Over on Netflix, there’s a new drama called “The Algorithm’s Revenge” or something equally vague , starring a man with cheekbones so sharp they could slice through a wheel of Edam and a plot so convoluted it makes Inception look like an episode of Peppa Pig. I watched three episodes and still don’t know if he’s a spy, a ghost, or just really bad at making eye contact.

And in the world of competitive cookery, MasterChef: The Professionals has returned  or as I call it, “Stress in a Saucepan”. One lad tried to sous-vide a pigeon while crying into a ramekin, and another served a deconstructed shepherd’s pie that looked like a crime scene at a mashed potato factory. Monica Galetti judged a jus so harshly it developed imposter syndrome. I haven’t seen that much sweating since I tried to assemble flat-pack furniture in a heatwave with a hangover and a wasp in my trousers.

Finally, in cinema news, the latest superhero film droped   ( That's  a modern expression for released🙄) “Captain Beige and the Multiverse of Shrugging”. It’s three hours of CGI explosions, emotional speeches delivered in front of green screens, and a villain who looks like a rejected concept for a Lidl mascot. I left the cinema with tinnitus, popcorn in my shoes, and a vague sense that I’d just watched a very expensive screensaver.

So there you have it  a week of entertainment so surreal it could’ve been curated by Salvador Dalí after a night on the Buckfast. Tune in next week when I review a reality show about competitive ironing and a documentary on the secret lives of garden gnomes. Until then, keep your remote close and your expectations lower than a limbo dancer in a trench.


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