I really shouldn’t give a toss

But the telly is fucking dross

I brace myself, pick up the remote

Land on a soap; generic, inchoate

And immediately my thoughts float,

Like Libyans fleeing on a leaky boat

Switch over to a report on Syria. Pious

Pictures of refugees, suffering, living in tents,

But hey, bet those are affordable rents!

Then I encounter the BBC news’s bias

And their plethora of smug hacks –

Like that speccy Tory chancer

Yeah him, the one who got cancer –

Who love to report opinions as facts,

Take their coverage of this general election,

A blatant exercise in elitist preservation

That to keep things the same

The viewer’s minds must remain lame

So reports contain this message within –

Demonise change and that it can win

So even if the political ideas are tired,

Claim that the public are still inspired

By a photo-op of an MP eating candy floss,

And then allowing them to talk dross

Like – better vote for us or it’ll be chaos.

All of it designed to leave you at a loss

That’s why Farage, that slime, a pantomime

Is always appearing on Question time.

Even Newsnight has taken to this shite,

Wish I could watch Newswipe every night.

But satire and ingenuity have a high cost

Reading an autocue is cheap, so art can get lost

Turn over, “scrounging cunts” on Jeremy Kyle,

Sadly you’re tempted to dwell a while

To naval gaze at their moronic bile

Then one of the guests says with a smile

‘I pay no child support and I’m proud’

The usual trope for a baying crowd,

The kind of cunts who like UKIP out loud

Enough of this, so ahead I ploughed

Into that fucking meerkat ad

Watch it on a loop, make yourself mad

Then, with a patronising glint

An ugly bloke with a squint

Sells you double glazing

Listen! This offer is amazing,

But you’ve already got it

Have you signed up for Sky yet?

Join Betfred and get a free bet.

Gillette – the best a man can get

Enough! Michael Portillo on a train?

Could this engage my brain?

Possibly, but it’s so fucking earnest

Put your cardie on and give your eyes a rest

Fuck, they still don’t play music on MTV anymore?

Over to BBC Four. It should offer more

But there’s too many docs full of talking heads,

Even a doc about The Talking Heads

Would be full to the brim of talking heads.

And yeah, most of them are dickheads

Like they two arrogant tits on Masterchef,

Who make you wish you were deaf

Oh! Foie gras and caramelised leek

It’s the fucking grand final next week!

Which of the finalists will thrive?!

Fuck yeah, what a time to be alive

These new comedies all fucking suck,

Gavin & Stacy – get that tae fuck

Where’s the Thick Of It? Brass Eye?

The Inbetweeners? Or something wry –

Eurotrash? Blackadder? Max Headroom?

Bet the makers of that took a mushroom.

So off I go searching, on the hunt;

All I find are re-runs of Bargain Cunt,

Shows hosted by that Jim Davidson creep

Or fucking Supermarket Sweep.

I’m bidding this shite goodbye

Because the football’s (only) on Sky

Their poxy narrative gets unfurled

That it’s the best league in the world,

While Ray Winstone’s massive head

Sells a culture that’s almost dead,

Then there’s the preview show

Niall Quinn fellating Jose Mourinho,

Gary Neville’s prepubescent tashe

And Jamie Carragher talking balderdash.

After the footie’s over, light entertainment

That exists for product placement,

The cost? Human debasement

Makes me want to torture animals in a basement

X-Factor – the new Nuremburg Rallies,

For proles to behave like wallies

People pretending to have a good time

At the scene of a sociological crime

But they have dreams, so extortion’s fine

When a shot at fifteen minutes is on the line,

Ant & Dec are an ISIS recruitment tool

While Piers Morgan plays the fool

Rotting the brains of every generation

So, what’s left? Cheaper exploitation –

Louis Theroux on transgender kids

As somebody said – I cannae be fucked with this

They’re used and conditioned, like the rest of us

By cynical shows created just to make a fuss,

It explains the circus that is Katie Hopkins

Who’s about as pleasant as Non-Hodgkin’s

But is it us or them that are the problem?

I reckon our nature is prone to boredom,

We wet ourselves seeing folk win twenty grand

Or indulge in schadenfreude, if it’s on hand.

So if we watch, we get what we deserve –

Nothing. But can I, can we, give it the swerve?

No, but I’ll preserve my sanity’s remaining vestige

In recognising the medium is the message,

So let’s be real and get it right,

The telly has always been shite