Curtain up, light the lights – it’s the TV industry’s night of frights.
COME SUNDAY, THE 50th TV WeekLogie Awards will be on and I’ll be curled up on my couch in my pyjamas eating the leftover Easter eggs and watching the annual car crash again. I do it every year and I have no idea why. If anyone out there loves me, please kidnap me, strip me naked and tie me to a boom gate in Narre Warren. At least then I won’t wake up on Monday and feel as if I’ve spent the previous night making kiddie porn.
Invited? Sure I was. I’m just too gutless to go in case I bump into half the television industry. I’m not The Horse Whisperer; I’m The Show Monsterer. Actually I’m The Horse Show Monsterer. Those girls from McLeod’s Daughters have a bucket full of nipple cripples and Chinese burns with my name on them. They’ve even threatened to pull my hair. Calm down, boys. I know you want me.
Can you believe they’re really holding the Logies again this year? Hasn’t someone put that sick puppy out of it’s misery? Don’t give awards to the Australian television industry. Shave it, slap it and throw it in a pit full of Daryl Somers’ jocks.
What is there to celebrate? Wayne Carey has more to be proud of than Australian television. It’s in an appalling state. And if you don’t believe me, switch on the box and try watching for more than five minutes and see if you don’t want to kill yourself.
Going to the Logies is great fun if you enjoy talking to people off their faces who spend the entire time looking over your shoulder for someone else to talk to. It’s like being in a house with a hallway but no rooms. And no roof.
The women are hilarious. After marinating in fake tan for two months and not eating since Boxing Day, they teeter around in their high heels with their bad breath calling everyone darling and then slagging off every darling’s frock before darling’s even out of earshot. It’s dead eyes and strap-on smiles all round.
The blokes get a few drinks into them and go from job-hunting to pussy patrol, and it’s ugly. Boy, is it ugly. Leering sleazy attention-seekers totally defined by what they wake up with on the end of their Logie.
What would I like to see this year at the Logies?
Well, first Marieke Hardy and I should be hosting. We’d just laugh and hurl abuse before vomiting into each other’s hair pretty much like everyone else but without the fake tan.
Entree would be Sam Newman a la mode.
Main course you’d have the choice of free-range, grain-fed Richard Wilkins or a boned-and-stuffed fillet of Jessica Rowe.
Turkey slaps all round.
If you’ve ever thought you’d like to go to the Logies, trust me, you don’t. Any person involved in television worth their salt wishes they were on the couch in their pyjamas or tied to a boom gate in Narre Warren.