Competition, competition...is there no end to it?
Fresh from the Arsenal's ejection from the FA cup at the hands of a Benni McCarthy wondergoal, I awoke braced for the latest bout in the long-running war between the BBC and ITV. In a cynical and highly controversial ratings battle, the two behemoths of British broadcasting have upped the ante somewhat by pitching to the lowest possible common denominator in a pointless piece of eyeball-to-eyeball schedule brinksmanship. It's all very well, but, really who wins in the long run? And who will blink first?
Of course, it's one thing putting Eastenders and Coronation Street up against one another, I can accept that. But who on *earth* is responsible for coinciding Clare Nasir's Fall-inspired ("the-ur weather-ur system-ur is currently-ur over-ur the-ur Atlantic-ur..") weather broadcasts with Jules Wilson's BBC London traffic bulletins? Does the person responsible have any idea what sort of early-morning, half-befuddled decision-making crises they are causing across the land with this pathetic piece of broadcast madness? I mean, what does a decent man do? Does one wade through the interminable adverts for Farley's rusks and Bodyform sanitary appliances in the vain hope that the pert and perky Clare will be
a) wearing a skirt whose hem is at least a few inches off the studio floor
(and if so)
b) not being filmed by prudish Presbytarian cameraman who insists on her being shot as if she were Elvis Presley gyrating wildly on the Ed Sullivan show c. 1956.
Or do we settle for a briefer glimpse of the slightly more minging (although still admirably put together) charms of BBC London travel's far more reliably slatternly presenter Jules Wilson?
But this morning - joy of joys! - there seems to have emerged a fragile detente. Opting - as increasingly is my wont - to endure the adverts to behold the in increasingly obliging Nasir (the skirts are getting shorter, the colletage more de with each week that passes...), there she was in what appeared to be a sombre, navy blue half-open-from-the-waist-down dressing gown type arrangement, both her svelte legs appearing every now and then from between the gaping gap as she cantered and gambolled playfully across the screen from the Cornish riviera to her native Essex Estuary. On a whim, I flicked over expecting to find JW already seated, the camera austerely pinned to her (admittedly rivetting) upper torso. But no, there was Matt Barbet, drizzling on about some Oyster card related farago or other. Fair dos, I figured - can't win 'em all.
Imagine then, my intense pleasure when MB handed over to a barely clad JW, her ample Amazonian thighs bared to the knicker elastic by an even briefer, open dressing gown type arrangement than even the lovely Clare's. It was brief, but beautiful. The gloves are evidently off in this one, but thank heaven that good sense has finally prevailed and the two are being sensibly staggered so that those of us who appreciate the charms of both are not forced to suffer more than we have already in this *ridiculous* ratings war. If the girls are going to be forced to outdo one another in donning ridiculously inappropriate attire in order to attract desperate, thigh fixated men in their forties to sit through their frequently inane ("brightening-ur up-ur towards-ur the-ur late-ur after-ur-noon-ur.." and pointless "...you don't need a weather[girl] to know which way the wind blows...") broadcasts, at least they will be doing so on a level playing field and we will be able to make our choices having given both a fair crack of the whip.
My thoughts on the likely winner? Well, it's a tough call. Nasir's a true thoroughbred, obviously - barely articulate perhaps, but a joy to behold with the wind in her hair, racing over the flat with the glimpse of the whip. The face of an angel, beautifully proportioned jellies and a pair of pins to die for, she'll take some stopping, handicap not withstanding. At first glance, Wilson's a slightly less promising filly, but get past the heavy jaw and slightly masculine aspect and there's a few good furlongs in those finely turned fetlocks of hers. You'll certainly know there's something between your legs in the final stretch, that's for sure. Beautifully turned out in the paddock, but nonetheless BLABSH, Wilson should stay the course. Give her going that's good to soft and a fairly extensive and well layed tarpaulin and she might even pip her more heavily fancied rival at the post.
Photo finish, if you ask me.
L.U.V. on ya,
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