Why I became disenchanted with abc tv.

April 14, 2011

Never could live with the harsh hate word, so the head has changed.

Three or four days before the expected flooding of Brisbane, television’s sheer repetitive blanket coverage of the event and the constant force feeding of Bligh, embraced wholeheartedly by the ABC as by the commercials, so repulsed me that I turned away from News 24 and the ABC in general. ABC2 could have sustained a modicum of level-headiness by maintaining normal scheduling and avoid being swamped in the tide of hysteria. Running the same feed as 24 which differed not at all from the commercials, of which they are replicas, sucked-in by the herd mentality.

Nine black-balled after the Latham debacle finally severed a frayed knot. Bickering twin Seven’s Kosh, seemingly a pleasant chap, but we’re chemically incompatible. 24’s News Breakfast’s Trioli, couldn’t forsake her intellectually inspired stammer that never worked for me. Her partner’s ongoing wonderment at man’s instinctive trait to assist a fellow in strife implying an Australian-only idiom and Caroline Jones syrupy Australian Story introductions lauding as heroes downright psycho jobs whose grog and drug indulgences killed and maimed those around them. The poxiest of scabs prompted and coaxed into resourcefulness and tears, aware only of their own predicament, lovers and other strangers bit players.

The same suppressed do-gooders who are compelled to bow and scrape to Jones demands appear to be the same latter-day fundamentalists who assemble BTN for slow and backward children, unwisely used as a filler on a supposedly sensible and mature News 24. Its frequent and unwise use, with other imperfections, collectively engage my brain’s deterrent trigger and where once I embraced the news channel, its viewing rating shaded by either SBS. A seven second grab of local news suffices if the 9 am NBC replay airs in the background.

Any ABC house ad is aimed at an impressionable audience, which is kind and generous of management, considering their shared origins as graduates or escapees from special institutions. There is however, a less malleable, down to earth type who, as they near life’s end don’t actually need being spoken down to as though just emerging, old and withered, and dumb of course, from a gigantic, tired and suffering womb. Recently, a younger sibling felt compelled when giving out an email address, to remind of its small font necessity; old pillow-slips as under-covers, a 55 year trait observed from my mother, and advice on using the micro for tea-making.

Am off on another tangent, a word that I will look into one day, but before returning, will add a bit. Where once I took as granted a basic, down to earth philosophy as part of a shared gene pool, I’ve found it ain’t necessarily so, much to my naïve astonishment. One never runs out of surprises. It seems my preferred image as a youthful piss-pot fun-boy is clung to by those weak ones whose hate is strong. An example being my statement that a 30 year embargo on Cabinet documents is to be rued when Executive criminals should be investigated at the present, brought from her proudly bigoted creepy male friend that the embargo is 25 years.

These people don’t seem to know they don’t know. Resident of the same house is an inflated no-hoper carrying the amusing and jokey Beamish-White tag whose doubtful, much hyped acumen with the high faulting title easily won over an impressionable and ignorant little girl for her real estate portfolio of five units now reduced to one wobbly, unstable house of discord. Mother, the source of start-off cash for daughter, with the know-all boyfriend, now under duress as a hostage of sorts, but secure in the company of fools. That story is progressing.

Returning to the no-nonsense audience whose viewing preferences differs a fair bit from the coveted minus 75 iq category whose needs get little attention. I dare not query anymore how many hundreds of times warning ads similar to analogue shut-downs must be played before the message is understood by the wankers. What is so terribly terrible about forcing them to reason why one morning Bugs Bunny is not on their analogue screen. Few adverts seem intended to maintain the interest of mature, established and intelligent audiences, but are scripted by Jones’ mawkish discards for the intellectually weary.

It is not unlike computer solitaire where every move is preempted and even the mild delight of dragging a card has been taken from the player thus rendering the pursuit a nanny-like, Government instigated plant to further dumb down and then enact an unctuous takeover of the scattered remnants of Australia’s thinking ability.  Checking the stats page or estimating lawn growth is all that’s left for the brief distraction a recharging battery must occasionally get.

Yet I should whinge. Links are one of the many things that fill my p.c. bewilder box, and recently while clicking Google, reference of a letter thought unused by a syndicated journalist bobbed-up which propelled my return to Sunday’s Insiders, replaced by vintage McHale’s Navy while nursing ABC programming angst.

I seek Bligh’s political fall not for altruistic, do-good concerns like how she, pre-deluge, had almost bankrupted the state despite lush mining royalties, but for the Labor Party’s spy and info. collection methods. I.E my mentioning to a Labor booth worker how the NLP could easily run with stories from any issue of a morning newspaper without too much embellishment. He produced a camera and I posed with his lady friend. For amusement and not wanting to be pushy, have made some observations on…

Thank you Gillard for finding the guts to tell healthy bludgers to work for their poker-machine money, Les.

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