Don't dream it's over
I'm starting to wonder what the point of TV is at all. I'm sick of watching it, bored to death of flicking with the remote control for hours and I've certainly given up dusting it. I wrote my name on the screen about two weeks ago and I find it's actually improving my viewing experience not being able to fully see what's going on.
The latest TV to make me roll my eyes heavenward is Chantelle's Dream Dates. The chirpy, uber-tanned Essex doll truly is 'living the dream' (her oft-quoted catchphrase since leaving the show) and has been the subject of two television programmes since her Celebrity Big Brother win. The first followed her around like a faithful Pekinese as she made her first stumbling steps into national superstardom. It tracked her bizarrely sexless relationship with the fittingly-titled Ordinary Boy, Preston, who looks as if he's permanently submerged in a vat of formaldehyde and it also trailed her trips to visit grandparents, mates and other relatives.
Since the newness of Chantelle's celebrity has faded somewhat, she's now transcended the shaky camera moves and stilted dialogue of her own reality TV show to the, er, shaky camera moves and stilted dialogue of her own dating show. Chantelle's Dream Dates (expert shoehorning of the word 'dream' in there. Well done E4!) sees Chantelle in all her hopelessness tottering about London (there are lots of shots of Big Ben and the Thames just so viewers are left in no doubt) looking in the windows of Top Shop and finding a Plain Jane who she can makeover – or rather 'tart up'- and hook up with her 'dream' guy. Chantelle selects three guys who, for no reason that is immediately apparent, get to see a picture of the girl pre-transformation and give her a good slating. The newly-cleavaged and post-hairdo victim then gets to trot out in all her Miss Selfridge finery and pick which one of these meatheads she wants to take on a date; well, yes, I can see why you'd want to date someone who thirty minutes before said you looked like Scarface- brilliant!
Chantelle's part in this is minimal. Looking faintly bemused and as if she's thinking about nothing more taxing than chocolate, she fluffs her lines, blinks, purses her lips and chats away, oblivious to the camera crew, contestants and thousands of pounds of production company money being bukkaked all over this televisual horror. That the contestant outperforms her in confidence, charisma and motor skills demonstrates only too well how utterly useless Chantelle is at anything other than saying 'Oh my God!', no matter how likeable she may be. She can't even be arsed to do her voiceovers on the show, preferring instead to have a narrator telling us what she's thinking and doing. I love trash TV, but this is just shit; there's a difference. If Chantelle wants this dream to continue, I think it's time she actually woke up.