How to Stop Firefox Becoming an Uncontrollable Memory Fiend

Seeing as this blog was just sat here gathering dust, I thought I might as well put it to some use, rather than have it act as some kind of archive for my petty grievances with the rest of the world.

Recently, I've being having something of a 'mare with Firefox.

Namely, it's been taking a dog's age to start up and even longer to quit, while in between its consumption of my computer's memory has been something akin to a fat man at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

A fat man who quickly finishes all the food, and starts chomping on the fixtures and fittings.

In fact, more often than not I'm forced to shut it down manually from Task Manager, rather than experience the life force slowly ebb out of me waiting for it to end.

It's made my favourite browser almost unusable, and at the time of typing, I can't honestly say that it's entirely sorted, but I have discovered some extremely useful tricks that I thought I should share.

Check Your Add-ons

Boring, I know, and every guide I've read to try and solve my problem (I've read a lot) mentions this, but it's worth doing.

1. Firstly, check for updates to Firefox (Help -> Check for Updates). In the event that this does not magically solve the problem, close down Firefox in start it in Safe Mode (select it from the Programs menu), making sure to select the option that disables all extensions.
2. Use it for a bit and have a look in Task Manager (Ctrl+Alt+Delete) under the 'Processes' tab to see if you're still getting excessive memory usage, and whether Firefox is still taking an unusually long time to completely close.
3. If you're still getting problems in this state, you might possibly be better off completely reinstalling Firefox altogether, but make a backup of your Firefox profile first, as you may be able to save things like bookmarks, history and other preferences etc.

   It's usually stored in C:\Documents and Settings\username\Application Data\Mozilla\Firefox\Profiles

   In truth, performance problems are usually caused by some kind of conflict with extensions, so you should find you don't have many problems using Firefox in Safe Mode.

4. In Firefox, go to Tools > Add-ons and look under 'Extensions'. Click the 'Find Updates' button, install any new versions if found, then restart Firefox.
5. Go here: http://kb.mozillazine.org/Problematic_extensions and see if any of the add-ons you use are in the list. If they are, follow the suggestions for each one, usually involving replacing them with a similar one or uninstalling them altogether.

   Frankly, no matter how useful an add-on may be, if it's compromising the overall performance of your browser to the point of near-unusability, you're better off without it.

Pimp Your Preferences

Here's a fantastic tip which is so good, I can't believe it isn't incorporated into Firefox by default.

1. Go to Firefox's address bar at the top and type in about:config, then press Enter.
2. Click the 'I'll be careful, I promise!' button and then right click on the page and select New -> Boolean.
3. In the pop-up, enter config.trim_on_minimize and press Enter.
4. Select True and then press Enter.
5. Restart Firefox.

Now, whenever you minimize Firefox, its memory usage sort of 'resets', and while it does build up again, usually it should top off at a much more manageable level.

Major 'props' to the techgurls blog for that one.

Greedy Google Toolbar

Google Toolbar can be very useful indeed, what with all the customisable buttons and that, but recently it seems to have developed something of a memory habit akin to a junkie needing a regular fix.

It's time for an intervention.

Navigate to your Firefox profile folder, (usually C:\Documents and Settings\username\Application Data\Mozilla\Firefox\Profiles) and look for a file named places.sqlite.

If this file seems ridiculously large (mine was about 180 MB; even for a heavy user of Firefox it really should be a fraction of that), then Google Toolbar may be to blame.

You see, it rather over-zealously makes a thumbnail of every page you visit, just in case that page becomes one of your most frequently visited pages, and it needs to have an image of it for use in the 'new tab' page.

You may never have even seen this page, but regardless I would say this feature is certainly less than essential. If it's crippling your browser though, then it really needs to be turned off.

1. Click on the little spanner (wrench for our American friends) logo at the right of Google Toolbar, or simply right click in the toolbar and select 'Google Toolbar Options'.
2. Under the 'Search' heading, uncheck the option that says 'Enable the Google new tab page' then click the 'Save' button. Close down Firefox.
3. Make a copy of your Firefox profile folder and save it somewhere like the Desktop. Y'know, just in case.
4. Download SQLite Database Browser and extract the contents.
5. Start the application inside the folder, and in the window click on the yellow folder icon at the top left. Navigate to places.sqlite in your Firefox profile folder and open it.
6. Click on the tab labelled 'Browse Data', then click the drop-down box beneath and select 'moz-anno_attributes'. Make a note of the id number for google-toolbar/thumbnail and google-toolbar/thumbnail-score. (For me it was 10 and 11 respectively).
7. Click the Execute SQL tab and in the SQL string box paste:

   delete from moz_annos where anno_attribute_id = 10; // 10 = 'google-toolbar/thumbnail' vacuum;

   Of course, if the id number is different for you change it accordingly.

8. Click the 'Execute query' button.
9. Repeat this for the other attribute:

   delete from moz_annos where anno_attribute_id = 11; // 11 = 'google-toolbar/thumbnail-score' vacuum;

10. Click File -> Compact Database.

Now, have a look and see how big places.sqlite is in your Firefox profile folder. If this has worked anything like it did for me, it should be at least a tenth of the size.

Thanks to the peeps on this thread for the technical nerdery on this one.

Right, if your Firefox browser doesn't work better after all of that, I will personally send you $1,000 dollars.*

*No money will be sent.

Pulling the Blog

I've lost that blogging feeling somewhat of late. Not that I particularly had it in the first place.

Since Biffo shut down operations - without even leaving a picture of a big spunking cock behind this time - I've found it increasingly difficult to get enthusiastic about anything in the blogosphere, given that Mr. B's ramblings were pretty much the only thing I read on a regular basis. I've certainly found it increasingly difficult to muster up the energy to convert my own event-free existence into a readable form.

I was under the impression that Biffo was only taking a break, but the prolonged absence of any new content (or indeed any content whatsoever - his blog merely remains as some kind of placeholder, with even the promise of previous writings appearing in some kind of archive form apparently having been shelved) would suggest that he's officially had enough with sharing his life with bunch of perfect strangers. Which is fair enough really.

Interestingly he's also jacked in his Edge column, and even his own website now only exists as an advert for his books (for now at least - apparently the publisher of Confessions of a Chatroom Freak has gone into liquidation. It seems that it's not only Biffo himself that's determined to wipe every trace of him from the Net).

I can't really blame him for wanting to go to ground. As entertaining a part of my daily routine reading his stuff was, he's under no obligation to write anything whatsoever for the edification of feckless Internet boreds like myself, and the disproportionate levels of hostility that can be generated by, for example, simply telling the truth about witnessing some games industry corporate tosspot making a tit of himself at a music event, could also be a factor in his disappearance.

Digitser was the perfect blend of gaming news and outright nonsense; a magazine in which the best thing about it was frequently the stuff that didn't even have anything to do with games. Given the games industry's propensity for long periods of relative inactivity, or simply the volume of dross it chooses to foist upon us, taking a wander down Digi's surreal B-roads could make a review of even the most boring car simulator essential reading. The current residents in that esteemed slot should take note.

When Digitiser flew off in a big Death Egg into the clouds in 2003, we thought we'd seen the end of Biffo, but thankfully he kept his 'hand' in, writing a column for Edge, and later thrilling nerds like myself by starting his popular blog, retaining his famous writing style, but unencumbered by having to rewrite hyperbolic press releases about how the new PlayStation was more powerful than a thousand suns, or something. He could make even a trip to the supermarket an entertaining tale of heartache and sexual harassment, resulting in that rarest of things - a blog that people actually want to read (and yes, I am aware of the irony).

So consider this post some kind of - admittedly fairly poxy - tribute, to a man who has entertained and informed in one form or another for significant chunk of both my gaming and non-gaming life.

To Biffo - bottoms out!

Direct-Me-Don't Addendum

In my last post I half-jokingly mentioned that there must be something about my demeanour that caused people to find me inherently unreliable or untrustworthy - so much so that seemingly I could not even be relied upon to convey the correct time.

Well, a couple of days later that very thing happened - a bloke at a bus stop asked me for the time, which I duly obliged with an appropriate level of accuracy (we were waiting for a bus - minutes are important). He clearly wasn't convinced however, because mere moments later he decided to ask a bunch of thugs that happened to be walking past the very same question, apparently bothered enough about eliciting a second opinion that he was prepared to risk bringing a sound kicking down upon both of us.

Direct-Me-Don't

Someone stopped me and asked for directions the other day.

This could turn out to be the biggest mistake he'll make all year, and I can't help but wonder if he isn't still wandering the various blind alleys I'd clearly sent him down, hungry and confused.

My orientation skills are rudimentary at best, and were probably not helped by having a geography teacher that wasn't even there about half the time. When he did bother to show up, he spent most of the lesson telling us about where he'd been on some jolly the previous week. I suppose it's a geography lesson of a sort.

Anyway, asking me for directions is like asking Tom Cruise to cure your schizophrenia - only without the absolute certainty that I'm actually helping, or indeed any kind of certainty whatsoever.

This gentleman even had a photocopy of a map with him, with his destination highlighted on it, and it still took me an inordinate amount of time to get my bearings and find any road that I recognised. I really don't know the names of any streets where I live, despite walking down them frequently - when I need to get somewhere I'd much rather someone said, "It's opposite Argos," or "It's near that part of town that stinks of cheese" - although admittedly that wouldn't narrow it down much round here.

I can't quite remember when it was exactly in the middle of the seemingly endless flood of useless information that came out of my mouth, but at one point he asked me if I was cold. I wasn't particularly, so I took that as some kind of coded message that translated roughly as, "OK, I've stopped listening about 15 minutes ago, and I think we should both write this off as a mistake. I'm going to go and find someone else who's likely to be more helpful - you know, like a small child who's just learned to talk, or a violent hallucinating tramp."

Eventually he moved off in the general direction I'd indicated, no doubt his mind bleeding from the sheer multitude of confusing and contradictory information I'd bamboozled him with.

The one and only occasion where I could be fully confident that my guidance was sound was a number of years ago when I was coming home from school. A car pulled up beside me, and, rather than the expected abduction/bumming scenario, the driver asked me where a particular road was. I announced that all he need do was simply to continue on down the road that he was already on.

After he'd thanked me for my time, I strode proudly onward, happy in the knowledge that I'd managed to selflessly aid my fellow man, only to glance behind me and see that he'd actually only driven on about 2 metres, before deciding to ask someone else.

He was either confused by my instruction to, "Keep going down this road," or more likely was reacting to the invisible waves of unreliability that I clearly generate when people get near; a bloke asked me for the time the other day, and upon telling him I half expected him to ask me if I wouldn't mind checking to be sure.

No Country for Cunty Bus Drivers

At the eleventh hour I decided not to go and see Aliens Vs. Predator: Requiem.

I think when you're actively dreading going to see a film, it might be a sign that you're not going to have an entirely fulfilling cinema-going experience.

I decided to go and see No Country for Old Men instead, for which I had to travel to a cinema in the next town over, because my local fleapit had seemingly decided that it needed at least 800 of its many screens to show various versions of Aliens, including one 'VIP' screening. I don't quite know what that would entail - presumably they stab your eyes out before the film starts or something.

This is actually a slightly different post than the one I originally intended to write. After changing my mind about which film I was going to see, I thought I'd be describing how, despite the extra travel and expense involved - and the near-Arctic conditions I'd had to battle - I'd made such a brilliant last-minute choice - but I'm not entirely sure I did.

You see, I didn't think No Country was a bad film by any means, but there's something about those critically-lauded, slightly more 'meaningful' films that gets rather lost on me.

I probably should have learnt my lesson after I saw Syriana (another film I had to go on a pilgrimage to see - my local cinema clearly has my fellow city folk down as a bunch of drooling plebs, which, to be absolutely fair, is more or less spot on). Having heard nothing but good things about Clooney's anti-somethingorother polemic, I sat down and watched it, and was emphatically none the wiser two hours later. Again, it certainly wasn't bad, but I sort of wish there'd been more Kung Fu. Or something.

And why do people seem to think that having an ambiguous ending makes a film more dramatic or important? What's wrong with tying up loose ends and having some kind of satisfying payoff after investing two hours of your life watching something?

Anyway, the point is there are certain films that benefit from being seen on a massive screen with near-deafening surround sound (but must it be so loud, father?), and other films which I could happily wait to appear on TV. And then not bother to watch.

So I think I may go and see AvP:R (as the 'kids' are very much not calling it) at some point, because I've heard it said it's broadly the same quality as the first, which means - faint praise aside - if my love for the Alien was enough to sustain me through the first one, I should be able to manage another 90 minutes.

Interestingly, my slightly dissatisfied mood may have been crystalised by an encounter I had on the way home. Upon boarding the bus from the Hicksville town where the cinema was back to the, uh, slightly larger Hicksville city where I live, I was greeted by a large sigh and no small amount of chastisement from the good driver.

Apparently, his 'beef' was that I'd got on the bus before everyone had got off. In truth, I hadn't actually realized anyone was getting off when I stepped on board, as the (2) people alighting had clearly left it until the last minute to get up out of their seats. Nevertheless, this did not seem to cause any undue problem, but I received a curt telling off anyway.

I shouldn't whinge really, I mean, it's not as if I'm a paying customer or even A COMPLETE RUDDY STRANGER or anything.

Whoops Injustice

Mark Speight is apparently 'no longer a suspect' in his fiancee's death. Well, I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear that, and will no doubt see the funny side of this 'slight misunderstanding' in time to come.

Don't Look at Me

I finally got Radiohead's new album yesterday after it was released on CD, as I have something of an aversion of paying actual money for what essentially amounts to some ephemeral bits of data sent down a pipe, and also the pressure of having to choose how much to pay proved too great a dilemma for me.

Unfortunately, this joyous purchasing experience was somewhat marred by being served by possibly the rudest man on planet Earth, who practically failed to acknowledge my existence, never mind look at me.

After swiping the tenner from my hand, his eyeline never once again fell in my general direction, not as he tossed me my change, nor as he pushed the CD into my hand as if to say, 'We're finished here. Now fuck off.'

He was seemingly more interested in talking to his mate about his Xbox 360, which had apparently been cursed with the infamous red ring of death. I can only hope that this otherwise minor annoyance somehow develops into a bigger problem that goes on to ruin his life.

It's not that I haven't experienced the same level of 'service' in music stores before, but it's been a while since I've been given quite as short a 'shrift'.

It's perhaps my own fault; I should know better than to shop in HMV, but all the other cheapo places I used to like appear to have been crushed underfoot by the download revolution, which makes my hard copy purchase of In Rainbows all the more ironic.

Annoyingly, not five minutes later I noticed the same album in Tesco for a quid less, which after the cinema incident ▼, only served to compound my irritation.

On the way home however, I passed a Big Issue woman, and didn't bother buying a copy, which in a way makes me feel like I've broken even - despite the fact that I actually feel quite guilty and will almost certainly at some point end up giving £2 to charity to make up for it.

I Am... Reasonably Entertained

Annoyingly, for the sake of 'clever' blog posts titles at least, if I had strong feelings either way with regards to I Am Legend, I could have said something like, 'I Am Underwhelmed', or 'I Am Impressed'.

As it is, that's probably a good thing, as I imagine every talentless hack from here to Harrogate has already used one or the other.

It's strange that a film with such epic themes should leave so little impression, although having said that I wouldn't by any means consider it a waste of my valuable time/money. If I'm saying something similar after I go and see Alien Vs Predator in a couple of weeks, I'll be very much surprised.

SPOILY SPOILSTON ALERT

The Good:

1. The CGI. In helping to recreate a desolate New York City (at least I assume they didn't really blow up the Brooklyn Bridge), the use of computer technology has perhaps never been better implemented.
2. As ever, it's the little details that always linger longest in my memory. The movie poster that would seem to imply some sort of Batman/Superman crossover was a particularly nice touch.
3. The zombie leader. It was an unexpectedly creepy idea to have one of the infected lunatics retain his cognitive function, and indeed prove to be particularly cunning.

The Bad:

1. The CGI. I don't know who thought it would be acceptable to cut and paste the zombies from one of the Resident Evil games into a film and think anyone would be impressed. All they did was take you out of the film whenever you saw them up close. Rubbish. And what was with their stupid stretchy jaws? It was like something left over from one of the Mummy films.
2. Before I saw the film, I noticed it was a 15 certificate, and I was also under the impression that it was over 2 hours long. Upon watching it, it's clear neither of these things appears to be accurate. There's nothing in there that wouldn't seem out of place in a 12A (I don't even remember any swearing), and the running time clocks in at just over 90 mins, which seems very short indeed for a film dealing with such big ideas - although apparently the previous adaptation of Richard Matheson's book - The Omega Man starring Charlton Heston - is of similar length.
3. If that zombie is clever enough to set elaborate traps for Will Smith, why doesn't he wear some clothes so he can walk about in the daytime? And how come when Will stabs himself in the leg and has to drag himself to his car, is he able to stand up as soon as he reaches it? Or how, for that matter, after he's thrown all around his house the next day by King Zomb', is he still able to leg it upstairs afterwards?
4. And what was all the God-bollocks about at the end? I half expected Will to have a vision of his wife telling him everything was going to be alright.

The Ugly:

1. I dropped a pound on the floor just before the film started, which I failed to retrieve afterwards, even with the MacGyver-esque use of my iPod as a kind of impromptu torch, and if I can manage to say anything positive at all about the film after such hardship, it must have something going for it.

No News is No News

There seems to be a fundamental flaw with the basic concept of 24-hour rolling news stations, a problem never more evident than when a story breaks unexpectedly.

Like most people, I was shocked by the story of CBBC's Mark Speight being arrested on suspicion of murdering his girlfriend when I read about it on Friday morning. Quite frankly, it blew my mind, and my mind remained well and truly blown for the rest of the day as I was frequently reminded about it.

When I got home I happened upon this article in reference to the story. It doesn't really tell you much, but clearly there wasn't much information available at the time. What's most interesting though, is the embedded video at the top of the page. Here it is in case it disappears at some point:

What's striking is that correspondent Martin Brunt appears to actually know very little; indeed he seems to repeat the same three facts over and over again, implying that his in-depth research for this story amounted to a quick glance at Ceefax.

Curiously, he seems unsure about the most recent TV work of the people involved, something a cursory Google search would have confirmed for him.

At the end of the clip, when they all but claim to know bugger all, you kind of wish they would just say so instead of ploughing on with the relentless padding, rather than appear to lose face by admitting they've found no further new information.

In fact, as I write this, there's actually a suggestion that he had nothing to do with her death at all, but the best you can say is that no-one really knows anything either way.

What is true to say is that whatever the outcome, having his face appear on TV every 10 minutes with the word 'murder' associated with it isn't going to do him any favours.

Bumper New Year Blogfest

Wong!

Well, a new year comes and sits itself down on our sofa and refuses to move, in turn crushing 2007 beneath its buttocks.

What? Anyway, 2008 appears to have brought with it an embarrassment of stuff for me to prattle on about ineffectually, so wrap your retinas around this ▲, you wretched child.

This Explains a Lot

I feel slightly guilty for pointing this out, but this rather amuses me. It's from BBC Radio 4's You and Yours website:

Tonsillectomy Scars

I haven't posted anything in a while since my searing exposé of Super Mario Galaxy set the internet on fire, so here for no particular reason is a short anecdote from my rather dull life.

When I was a kid, I had to get my tonsils out, so that invovled going into hospital for a bit. It turned out to be a bit longer than expected, because presumably vomiting up a load of blood and ending up attached to a drip isn't standard procedure after a tonsillectomy.

Anyway, I don't know if it was because it was close to Christmas and the nurses felt sorry for us kids, but it seemed like we were always having parties and being taken on trips around the hospital and stuff.

One particular excursion involved a visit to the hospital radio 'station', even though I don't think any of us actually listened to it. Shortly after arriving, after greeting the foul denizens that lurked within, and without any warning, I was asked what song I would like to be played by the DJ.

Being about 7 and not really knowing the names of any bands, I struggled desperately to think of something - anything - vaguely half-decent to suggest. The more tried to think, the more rubbish came to mind. Eventually - after what was probably only about ten seconds to be honest, but feeling like I was under some kind of deadly time limit - I blurted out, 'FIVE STAR!'.

Now, if you're not familiar with Five Star and their oeuvre, it may help you to know that it's possible that at some point somebody may have referred to them as 'The British Jackson Five', and yes, that is actually as shit as it sounds.

Being 7-years-old did not however assuage my embarrassment as the DJ announced my name on air and dedicated The Slightest Touch to me. They could have at least played System Addict. What's worse is that the kid who came after me chose The Final Countdown, which, despite being a slice of pure Eurocheese, was a song that I actually quite liked at the time.

To be fair, the only way the situation could have been improved for me was if the guy after had chosen something even worse, which possibly could only have been Agadoo or The Birdie Song.

And the moral of this story? Trust no-one my friend, particularly if they ask you to choose some music when you're wearing your pyjamas.

Super Mario Fallacy

Recently, I've been playing The Official Best Game Ever™, Super Mario Galaxy.

I know it's the best game ever, because people in magazines keep telling me so. And they never lie!

There's certainly been no small lack of expectation for this game, which is not unreasonable, given that most of Mario's previous platforming exploits have also variously been hailed as the best game ever made at the time.

After the - apparent - disappointment of Super Mario Sunshine (even though I enjoyed it), there was perhaps a slight note of cautious optimism as to whether this newest outing would be a true return to form. Well, numerous 10/10 ratings and perfect scores pretty much across the board would suggest that is indeed the case.

In pure gameplay terms, Galaxy is difficult to fault; visually stunning, a ridiculous number of big, varied levels, and a good, if not infallible, camera, which considering the kind of gravitational and spacial gymnastics it has to cope with, is nothing short of a miracle that it works at all.

Here's the thing...

... it's just too damn easy.

I was certainly surprised to be watching the end credits on my second day of playing, but I had been hammering it pretty hard since I got it the previous morning. However, that's been the general pattern with me and new games for as long as I can remember, and this still may be the fastest I've completed a big, proper videogame. I hadn't found everything though, merely half the game had to offer in fact, and I knew that collecting the rest of the stars would be the real challenge.

When I eventually picked up the final star a couple of days later, that's when the alarm bells really went off.

I would never really consider myself some kind of demon games player, although I am certainly well-versed in the ways of Mario, but even so I remember battling on for weeks at least when trying to find everything Mario 64 and Sunshine had to offer. Apart from the odd tricky section, usually involving some sort of race or the collection of purple coins, I snagged most of Galaxy's stars on my first couple of tries.

I was half convinced there must be something else to do after finding every star, but aside from the opportunity to play through the whole game again as a different character (oh, cheers), that seems to be it.

I'm not saying it isn't a great game, and I'm not saying I didn't enjoy myself hugely while playing it, but can a game so relatively challenge-free be truly considered the best ever?

Supported by The Raging Squits

With every passing day I may grow older, but it's looking increasingly unlikely that I'll ever really grow up:

Click

They must know, right?

Videogame Awards Show Update - Still Shit

I was going to write a bit about the British Academy Video Games Awards 2007 that were on E4 last night, but it would be much easier just to point you towards this post that I wrote about last year's ceremony, and simply invite you to change some of the names.

Dude Sounds Like a Lady

Well, it's confirmed - I officially sound like a woman. On the telephone anyway.

After what must surely be the 500th complete stranger I've spoken to on the phone who has continually referred to me as 'Mrs.' throughout the duration of the call, I feel I must reluctantly admit that my manly tones are perhaps not best served by Mr. Bell's wonderful invention. After all, there's only so many times I can put it down to a bad connection, or the fact that the person at the other end of the line is a feckless dullard.

This is not a problem I've ever had to broach in a face-to-face situation however, presumably because being confronted by my overtly masculine frame would nullify any doubts anybody may have about my true gender. Either that, or they're so bemused by the spectacle of a lady's voice coming from the shambling wreck of a man stood before them, that they dare not raise the issue, lest I bring some unholy curse upon them.

Whenever I've tried to explain this away to myself, I sometimes wondered if perhaps some people just had a funny way of saying 'Mr.' or something, which, in combination with a useless telephone, might just sound like they were saying 'Mrs.' Which works fine as a bit of ad hoc self-esteem boosting, but rather falls apart on the occasions I've had to give my (real) name over the phone, and they automatically assume it's the feminine equivalent. Particularly troubling when I'd already been speaking to them for some time before that point.

I wouldn't care, but if people aren't used to speaking to someone who hasn't wrecked their voice smoking 8 billion fags a day, or drowned their vocal chords in moonshine since the day they could open their mouth it isn't my fault.

I probably shouldn't be so bothered about it though. Even though I wouldn't exactly think of myself as an eyeliner-wearing metrosexual with my hair crafted into some kind of fin, I'm not really sure how this occasional annoyance impacts my life in any real way.

Apart from the fact that the person I was speaking to is the man who's coming to service our boiler, which means I now have to keep well out of sight for the rest of the afternoon, in order to avoid any number of awkward situations with no good outcome.

The Sketch Show is... Only Sleeping?

I wasn't sure what to expect from The Peter Serafinowicz Show (Thursday, 9.30pm BBC2), and having seen the first episode, I'm not entirely sure what to expect next week either.

It's been heavily trailed over the past few weeks, but all I could glean from the fast-cut promos was that it appeared to be some kind of Dead Ringers-esque impressions-based sketch show, which meant my anticipation levels weren't exactly sky-high at the prospect.

Serafinowicz has been around the comedy scene for ages, in fact name almost any half-decent British comedy from the last 10 years or so and he's probably popped up in it somewhere. He's perhaps best known however, for the almost-too-good educational programme spoof Look Around You, which, like this series he also co-wrote with Robert Popper, so there's a good pedigree here at least.

It is slightly worrying though, the way that the BBC keeps referring to him as 'the next big star' or whatever, because not only is such self-assured cockiness on the part of the corporation rather unappealing, it slightly devalues all the stuff he's done before. Not only that, it puts an incredible amount of pressure on this particular show, rather than just putting it out there and letting people find it, which is usually the best route looking at most successful comedies of recent times.

Anyway, the show itself is sort of like Dead Ringers, except not all of the sketches featured caricatures of famous people - and at least some of it was funny.

By implication of course, some of it wasn't, and when sketches fell flat they really did, and when presented with yet another Big Brother spoof, my heart truly sank like a stone.

It was refreshingly pacey though - the sketches came thick and fast, not quite Fast Show levels, but just about the right speed in order to get the joke across, or conversely move on quickly if a sketch didn't work.

I can't say I remember laughing out loud at all, but throughout the show there was an endearing nuttiness underlying much of it, namely the robotic talk show host Michael-6 and the Michael Caine acting masterclass.

I'll probably keep watching, if only because it's quite nice to see a programme where I suspect the star is genuinely enjoying himself making it.

Actually, it was almost worth it just for the scarily accurate impression of Alan Alda.

Never Mind the Unpleasantness

For no particular reason I watched an old episode of Never Mind the Buzzcocks today. It was the - apparently - 'infamous' edition featuring Chris Moyles, whereby he was subjected to a 'right kicking' from Mark Lamarr et al.

Except, he wasn't. In fact having just seen it, it turns out it seems I already saw it at the time, and found it so uneventful that it barely registered. In fact, if anyone was targeted in the programme, it was fellow guest Vic Reeves, who was repeatedly - and rather unfunnily - subjected to a sample of music from a band he used to be in.

All it did really was remind me why I stopped watching the programme altogether, namely because it just wasn't very funny. Indeed, I started to find the rather aggressive, bullying style of the regulars, and in particular Lamarr, rather unpleasant.

Why bother trying to be witty when you can target a vulnerable guest and repeatedly insult them until they're on the brink of tears? That'll teach them for coming on some poxy quiz to earn some money and have a bit of fun.

Seeing Sean Hughes recently on a edition of Animal Rescue Live looking like a tramp who'd inadvertently wandered onto the set almost makes me believe there may be such a thing as karma.

Anyway, you can see the episode in question (on chrismoyles.net, curiously enough) here. Scroll down a bit, it's in there somewhere.

It made me think about how things get spun one way or another, in this case if you'd only heard the hype and never seen the episode you'd think that Moyles had been ritually crucified while his close friends and family were made to watch. I'm not saying he looked particularly comfortable - he never really does on TV - but I've certainly seen people come off much worse on the show. If you were one of Moyles' many detractors though, you'd probably be keen to make much of it.

Rather like the Janet Jackson 'Nipplegate' incident, whereby a small group of fanatics would have you believe that the only way to rectify such a heinous offence is to fine a TV company to the point of bankruptcy, and in turn impose ever more ludicrous puritanical regulations (saying 'bum' on network television is punishable by a day in the stocks now), while the rest of the world sits scratching its head wondering what all the fuss is about.

Prince Charles Seen with Fly Undone - Crisis Report

I realize complaining about news and the quality of the media in general is next to pointless, but occasionally it still manages to stun me with the depths of banality they're prepared to plumb.

Check out this recent story I noticed about how some member of the Royal Family has left a button of her coat undone.

You know how people sometimes wonder if they're the only real person in a world of robots? Well I have a similar thought sometimes, only I'm more or less convinced I've somehow been dropped into a parallel universe populated almost exclusively by total cretins, and the whole thing's building up to me eventually having some kind of cage fight with Stephen Fry.

Another Knob Gets TV Gig

Out of all the spam I've received recently, this is arguably the most disturbing:

Hi there

You will see your penis on MTV

I think it's the way it says, "You will see your penis on MTV," like I have no choice in the matter.