When I was toying with the idea of a blog, back in February of this year, I went down the tumblr route, before giving up after a single entry. And here it is:
In 2005, my American girlfriend at the time introduced me to a then barely-known London-based sitcom called Peep Show. Initially balking at the idea of sitting through yet another too-trendy-for-you-sir late night comedy, I found myself rather enjoying it. Then liking it. Then loving it. A few years later I considered myself a fan.
Then it went off air for a bit and I directed my attentions towards Lost or Battlestar Galactica or some other such balls that would end up crapping into my open mouth when their finales eventually appeared online to illegally download.
But then something happened. There was another Peep Show. Except it wasn’t anywhere near as funny.
In fact, it was about as funny as being held down by a gang of thugs taking turns squeezing a bicycle pump that’s attached to your bell-end. Unlike A Bit of Fry And Laurie, Bottom, Alas… Smith and Jones, and many other duo-centric comedies that used to be made for eight quid on the Beeb, I find myself sitting in front of ball-saggingly lame catchphrase gags covered up by over-zealous canned laughter. It was called That Mitchell And Webb Look.
At this point I realised these guys were on the slide. Hammered home further when I saw the universally-panned Magicians advertised on the side of a 157 bus.
Around this point in my life I became a boring cunt and started listening to Radio 4. At least, until the oft hilarious (in a boring cunt-ish way) Just A Minute started inviting David Mitchell onto its panel.
He then pops up on QI. Have I Got News For You. Mock the Week. The Big Fat Quiz of the Year (presented by self-confessed shit-eater Jimmy Carr). Jonathan Ross. The One Show. The Graham Norton Show. Lily Allen And Friends. The man has no shame.
Open the Guardian. I dare you. Because if you do, you’ll see a fat, gap-toothed smug face staring out at you inviting you to listen to why he thinks the world is a big pile of shit and how you can save it by buying some Premium Bonds, or why we should stop slagging off his friend Elizabeth Allen, or 8 Hilarious Olympic Lampoon Movies, etc.
If you don’t believe me that this man is ubiquitous, then take a look at his probably self-penned Wikipedia entry.
I’m playing it safe. I’ve stopped reading The Guardian. Or watching the telly. Or listening to Radio 4. David Mitchell craves publicity more than Adolf Hitler, and I for one have no interest in saluting him any time soon.
In response to the above comparison, I fully expect him to write a widely-celebrated article about how we always compare complete gits to Adolf Hitler. He may as well. I won’t be reading it.
Not expecting anyone to read it, I forgot about it until today. When I noticed a scathing response by a Whomo Tumblrist called gallium-knight.
His response, which I will post below, doesn’t seem to have any discernible purpose other than to wish me to choke on my own bile. I don’t regularly bring up bile, nor have I ever produced enough that I would end up pulling a Jimi Hendrix/dead bloke from AC/DC.
“It takes a sort of radiant, once-in-a-generation sort of mind to compare a British comedian with Hitler. It’s made all the more brilliant because I’ve never gotten tired of hearing everyone compare everything else with Hitler. Trademark brilliant writing: hyperbole meets cliche.
How dare David Mitchell appear on talk shows he’s been invited to. Bastard. I hope he chokes on his beard; but not as much as I hope you choke on your bile, Ghostlanguage.”
First of all, ‘gotten’ is not a word, except in American vernacular, which is inherently incorrect.
Secondly, I’d like you to name another Hitler/UK comedian comparison. Please do.
Finally, ‘cliche’ is not a word either. You’ve actually made up a new word that rhymes with quiche. Hyperbole Meets Cliche sounds like a Louis Theroux documentary where an illiterate meets a complete twat from the United States. Like your good self.
His response was posted under ‘A Brief Demonstration Of Terrible Writing’. Couldn’t have been more apt.