there's nothing worse than ... newsreader humour
'WELL, that's the news and sport for tonight. Now it's over to Mark with tonight's Mark Six numbers.' 'Thanks, Jenny. My name's Mark, not Mark Six, but they say I'm a pretty lucky guy. Ha ha ha. Well, tonight's numbers are blah, blah and blah. Back to you, Jenny.' 'Thanks Mark. Ha ha. Ho ho. Well, it's the anniversary of Elvis' death this weekend. How about you, Mark, are you an Elvis fan?' 'Well, Jenny, my name's Mark, not Elvis, but I've been known to belt out a tune or two. Ha ha ha.' Ha ha ha indeed. Chortle, chuckle, guffaw, yelp, yodel and belch, even. And on and on it goes. I did not make up the above exchange; indeed I doubt I could come up with such a welter of mind-numbing banality if I tried. No, it is a near-to-exact transcript of just one of the sparkling televisual colloquies the viewing public of Hong Kong were treated to by two of the city's alleged newsreaders last week.
If there's one thing that makes my blood boil, it is the torrent of trivial snivellings and phatic pap that gushes into our living rooms each night from the very people who are supposed to be giving us a sober and unadorned summary of the day's events. This trite, forced bonhomie reeks of the cheapest kind of fakery, and those responsible should be rooted out, hunted down and subjected to all manner of cruel and vicious tortures.
Televisions are expensive gadgets, and I have lost count of the number of times I have come close to smashing a screen with a well-aimed Doc Marten after being provoked by such irritatingly vacuous banter. I'm sure less calm and gentle temperaments than mine show no such restraint; each night at about 8 pm, Hong Kong no doubt echoes to a tinkling symphony of shattering cathode-ray tubes. In fact, I suspect collusion between newsreaders and television manufacturers, and I fully intend to apprise the ICAC of the situation.
Of course, American television is the worst offender. Newsreaders there have elevated brainless chatter to a veritable art form. But this insidious virus is slowly and inexorably infecting television everywhere. It is only a matter of time before even that bastion of no-frills news, the BBC, falls prey to its slimy tendrils.
The world of television is renowned for its excessively generous salaries and off-screen debauches. I can only assume that by the time someone makes it to the position of news editor, their brain has been irreparably warped by long nights full of drugs, booze and kinky sex. Otherwise, how could they possibly think that after the half hour of maiming and shooting and politicking, of bombs and crashes and corruptions that make up a normal night's newscast, we are going to feel better by watching their trained chimps crack jokes? Especially when these attempts at humour generally carry all the comedic timing of a funeral home director and the spontaneity of a stuffed and mounted cane toad.
Don't they realise they could fit in an extra news item in the time it takes the chimps to force a grim rictus over their gums and yabber inanely about the weather or pepper us with shoddy puns? When I turn on the news, I want news, goddamit. If I want low-rent, unfunny comedy, I'll switch on Seinfeld.