June loves and loathes

The Women's Fiction Team reveal what's floating their boat and what's sinking their dinghy.

Loves

Robert Downey Jnr – he’s got just the right charming combination of naughty, nice, clever and naughty. And did I say he’s a bit naughty? Mmm.

Britain’s Got Talent – more like Britain’s Got Idiots, but bless them, they are entertaining. And the final was one of the most emotional things we’ve ever been through. Andrew Johnston’s blubbing face and George Sampson’s snotty nose – you can never get ’em too young.

Occasionwear – the one good thing about everyone getting married in scary numbers: we get to dress up like lovely ladies for the day and swan about in a faux Audrey Hepburn manner. Matching bag and shoes, anyone? Race you to John Lewis! 

Online food shopping. Oh go on then, I’ll just slip that packet of biscuits in while no one’s looking. 

The Flight of the Conchords album – beware leggy blondes, you’re about to be serenaded! How you can not love lyrics like: ‘I’m sitting at this table called love/ Staring down at the irony of life/How come we’ve reached this fork in the road/And yet it cuts like a knife’? 

Home-made ice lollies. Orange squash, Ribena, Appletise, chocolate milk . . . The possibilities are endless! A bit like toasted sandwiches, really.

Sex and the City: The Movie. Never take a shower in Mexico?!

Big Brother – the auditions. Yes, it’s come around again. Just when you thought it was safe to turn on E4 at any time of the day or night at all EVER, the suckers are back for another dose of ritual humiliation.

Murder, adultery, incest (and, hmmm, ironpeckers) . . . No, not an episode of Desperate Housewives, but the scandalous goings on in our own back gardens – according to Springwatch!  Forget Big Brother, we’re loving Bill Oddie’s Rockcam!

Fern Forever: OK, so she maybe fudged the truth a tiny smidge and didn’t admit to a gastric band but who gives a hobnob? She’s still our dream aunty, even with her diminishing bosom. I’m calling on all the Between the Sheets folks to join me in a protest march outside the This Morning studios: Fern Forever! Fern Forever! We’ll be holding hands for gastric bands throughout a night-time vigil.

Loathes

Indiana Jones – oh, Indy, Indy, Indy. How the hunky have fallen. You should have left the whip where it was and not creaked your old bones about in this flat, pointless, unfunny calamity of a film. Even Shia the Beef can’t raise your stock now.

Car insurance/home insurance/life insurance comparison sites. Can we have a site for comparing comparison sites, please?

Soggy Bank Holidays: All those parks not sat in, all those bbqs not burning, all those Frisbees not flying. Fingers crossed for the real summer to start soon.

Wait, I’m just going to put my cultural studies hat on. Right. Here we go: my blood is boiling at the sight of that ri-god-damn-diculous moisturiser advert that offers pentipeptide rubbish to women who ‘aren’t ready for plastic surgery yet’. Yet. YET? The implication is we’re all going to be ready for it at some point, it’s inevitable, we’re only of worth if we’re young-looking and pretty so get ready for the chop chop snip snip of the surgeon’s knife. Grrrrrrr. Right, I’ll just take my hat off now. Where did I leave my best lipstick . . .

Also: what is biffidus digestivum and biffidus acti-regularis off the Activia ads? It doesn’t exist! Does it? Stick an ‘um’ or an ‘aris’ on the end and make it sound Latin, it has to be true.

Pre-holiday anxiety: Ahh! I didn’t lose those last five pounds/apply seven layers of fake tan/pick an intellectual challenging book to read/remember to put my passport in a safe place or learn to speak Portuguese!

Putting together IKEA furniture the wrong way round and leaving it that way – if we have to dismantle it and build it all again we’ll be sick. Result: a shelving unit that looks like it’s been shot at from all sides.

The end of Britain’s Got Talent. What are we going to without acts like the world’s most boring man, who vowed to ‘make mathematics funky’ (and failed), or the escapologist who padlocked himself inside a duvet cover and had to be rescued by St John’s Ambulance, or the rap poet who spoke about the need for peace in this world before reacting violently to the audience’s boos and screaming, ‘Come on then, I’ll have the ****ing lot of yer’?

Gok’s gone!! Even though we objected wholeheartedly to his increasingly insane Gokisms (leave our ‘Gokalicious Bangers’ alone, girlfriend!), we’ll miss his wise words.

Posted 17/06/2008 12:25:42 by The Between the Sheets team with 1 comments.