But will it be Ant . . . .or Dec? Sorry, make that Red . . . or Black? I watched it tonight, all of it, for the first time. What a load of shit. The cliches, the mind-numbing brain-dead passages of shit that pad out this programme ought to be replaced by a blank screen. I quickly became completely sick of the 'Red or Black' question, and the painful descriptions of what was about to happen and what the consequences might be. Ant & Dec served up the most basic 'game' in the world.
At one stage, the participants had to pick a boy or a girl (via a doll), to match the sex of a new-born baby. That's clearly a simple 50:50 choice, but to give it a Red/Black angle, they stuck red and black dummies in the dolls' mouths; pathetic. Then we had sheep being rounded up, some dyed bright red (poor things) and some dyed brown (?) which apparently counted as black.
We suffered the standard rubbish - responses to the question "What would you do with a million pounds?" and the very similar but much more stupid question, "What would the money mean to you?". The programme should perhaps be retitled "People going on about how they'd spend the money if they win".
Anyway, a nice chap from Doncaster ["I've worked all my life, since I was 17" - so not all your life then!] won a million pounds. There was the obligatory competition, of course, with the most pathetic question possible:
"Rouge" is the French word for which colour? A) Red B) Black
After enduring the programme, and the adverts for Jackpot Joy (with more red and black) I was worn out with 50:50 options and colours. Then I had to suffer Julie Etchingham on News at Ten, as she sat there wearing (you're ahead of me, I can tell) a black jacket over a red blouse. After the news, it was rugby - the opening game of the world cup, between Tonga in Red, and the All Fucking Blacks.
I will not be watching the next (last?) Red or Black fiasco, as my brain would shrivel at 1,000 times it's normal speed of degeneration for the duration of the programme. I will of course miss those ecstatic contestants who, after a single round, whoop for joy at being left in the final 500 (approx) with a chance of progressing if they get another 8 successive 50:50 chances in their favour, so that they can get a further go at the £1M or ZERO prize. If I had their blind stupidity, I'd be running round the fucking house now, screaming that I'm in with a chance on the Reader's Digest Prize Draw! Either that, or beating my wife up, then spending two and a half years in prison, all so that I qualify for entry myself on a future programme.
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