Did we like it?
If God has matured from his Biblical petulant bigotry and has one or two spare apocalyptic firestorms left over from the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, then perhaps He might sling one in the direction of the most dissolute districts of Los Angeles and rid us of this meddlesome pest.
What was good about it?
• Imagine everything that existed ‘before’ the universe came into being, then subtract every life affirming joyous moment of your life and you will find have some idea of what was ‘good’ about this show.
What was bad about it?
• The legend by which Best sells this show is, “For 30 days I will not have sex!” For a man who is consisted entirely of a receding hairline and a pair of testicles within whose foggy orbs the swirling sperm raucously head butt the sides of the sac making “come on then” faces to their sneering peers in the opposite bollock, this might seem like quite a feat. However, his chosen land of pap and honey is Los Angeles.
• And the district of LA that Best haunts happens to be home to the ugliest people on Earth. Men wander round the streets with faces like half-dug graves and eyes like empty shell casings, on their arms crumbling harridans with sodden-curtains skin relaid more often than Twickenham, all the while thrusting fake breasts that were they not loosely affixed to their chest would soar into the stratosphere to resemble a fleet of vulgar Hindenburgs.
• To therefore abstain from sex in such a repulsive environment is nothing to be proud of; it’s simply a natural sensual response to the surrounding hideousness.
• And that’s only their superficial ugliness, when they open their mouths a whole new chamber of Hell yawns wide open. An exchange between Best and an impolite woman in a club is a neverending whirlpool of “Sort your life out! “Fuck off!” Adee, one of Best’s ‘mates’: “The hardest habit in the world is women!” or “It’s going to be mad!” And this is a coronation of idiocy, as clichés and malformed sentiments are expelled from careless mouths in such thoughtless torrents that the dimmest baboon sitting on the lumpiest rock on the most arid African grassland is Frank Muir in comparison.
• “I want to spend the summer working,” said Calum, a man whose job is actually not to work.
• Calum visits a ‘life coach’. Life coaches are the ancestors of people who bred with reptiles – cold blooded, sub-human vacant cadavers who leech on the emotions of others, and whose only custom is from that sub-section of societal cowardice who ‘check into rehab’ the moment they experience a problem of their own making rather than having the rational, intellect and wisdom, that comes free with every human life, to elevate themselves from that trough of their own making.
• Calum’s agent Dave Read says: “The British press will slate [your programme].” This is an insult to people who are not part of the British press as they will “slate it” too. Unless, of course, Calum and ‘his people’ don’t care about anyone other than “the press” who can supply him with the tabloid exposes Calum needs in order to survive.
• On more than one occasion both ends of a phone call, sometimes across the Atlantic are both filmed, dispelling any notion of spontaneity and reality. And it’s because of this lack of reality that leads us to distrust the notion that Best is celibate when he’s not, for wont of a better phrase, on the job. Perhaps he really is abstaining from sex, perhaps we should admire him for this act of colossal asceticism, but we’re sceptical. It’s not just this series but Last Choir Standing, X-Factor, even The Apprentice that forfeit their right to visual veracity because of their propensity for staged theatrics.
• On MTV News, he is described as “the dashing Calum Best”. Why dashing? Is it because on MTV adjectives are snatched screaming from where they languish in Bavarian in to babbling laboratories where they are endlessly experimented on to erase all but the faint vestiges of their original meaning through egregious overuse by presenters with so much room in their heads and chest cavities that they could quite easily become a homeland to the dispossessed Gypsies, and still have enough room for a Dick Whittington theme park?
• MTV has been hoist by its own petard after serving up a steady diet of nothing for more than 25 years, slowly erasing its target audience’s capacity to mentally shovel up anything more challenging than the visual gruel of music video after endless music video, only to be now flushed into obsolescence by the even dumber You Tube. And Calum Best, Hulk Hogan, Kerry Katona – these are the atrophied emblems equivalent to those sad moments on wildlife shows where a haggard and deposed male lion shuffles across the open plains before stooping and curling his tongue about a desiccated wildebeest turd knowing this will be the most appetising meal he can expect today.