Never one to be told ‘write about what you know’, Will Nichols, a single man, ponders TV and Onanism
For those yet to venture to the outer frontiers of their Digibox, Babestation (go on, click the link – no one’s watching) is a vision of what all TV would be like were the networks scheduled by fourteen-year olf FHM subscribers. Using similar technology to the nest-cams from Springwatch, four screens display the dubious talent that England’s provincial clubs have to offer, rolling and rubbing and smiling at you.
Amazingly, the girls manage all this while on the phone. I can’t even type at the same time, but they’re off humping and pumping on screen whilst relaying this information in such intricate detail you suspect they can only be catering for a sizeable blind audience. It’s possible that many viewers has perfect vision before encountering Babestation, but their actions since…well, you get the picture.
For your premium rate penny you, the drooling viewer too timid for strip clubs, can pose the dolls: bend them over, demand that they get various parts of themselves ‘out’ or – amazingly and bizarrely common – ask them to show you their feet. One has to hope that someone is coming out ahead here, because sure as sure can be, everyone involved is heading for Dante’s pit.
It’s programmes like Babestation that make you wonder if Ahmadinejad might have a point after all. Under totalitarian Islamic discipline and censorship, Iran has massed $70bn in foreign exchange reserves. Meanwhile, we’re literally fiddling while Rome burns, spanking ourselves silly as our economic foundations crumble and the whole darn cathedral of ‘decadent capitalism collapses around our ears.
In the absence of clear leadership from Brown, Paulsen et al, I guess saving the world as we know it has fallen at my door – again. Contrary to the pun-tastic but ultimately ‘bully in the playground’ tactics of freezing Iceland’s assets – clearly Brown doesn’t have a small cat he can give a good shoeing – Babestation can drag us out of the mire.
Picture the scene: in a rented Daventry home, a band if enterprising, if lunar-skinned, ex-Lehman Brothers employees found their own show. With equipment borrowed from Bill Oddie, currently in a fallow period, they steadfastly refuse to alter the bumping and grinding formula, and even export it overseas. Although probably not to Iran.
By owning their own phone-lines they wrest control of their own means of production back from the wasteful, bourgeois pornographers. Soon, Britain’s shrivelled financial services sector is rocking back on forth on the command of lonely foreign businessmen. The pound soars. George Soros, sensing a profit, begins scouring Essex nightclubs for the next entrepreneuse. Britain out-Hollands Holland.
This all slots nicely into the Soviet system nationalising the banks has kick-started and, more to the point, surely amateur porn encapsulates the paradise Marx envisaged.