Davina Fit

"Will pose as teapot for money"

Hey fatty. Is it becoming a struggle to lift yourself off the sofa? Are children starting to point and laugh at you in the street? Has your gym membership got lost in the rolls of your belly flab? It's OK, I don't blame you because I understand it's not entirely your fault. Modern living has made you lazy; your television keeps you entertained whilst you force factory bred chicken wings down your bloated throat with podgy, grease-smeared fingers that you don't even have to leave the house for because someone gets paid less than minimum wage to deliver it straight to your door. You have everything you need right where you are, technological advancements at affordable prices have made it possible for anyone and everyone to enjoy the sedentary lifestyle which was once the sole luxury of the Royalty. Luckily for you, someone out there cares. Not just one person either, a veritable army of celebrities have rallied up in droves, abandoning their jungle camps and glittery ice skating tournaments to help you; Fatty McFattson, sort your life out via the visual medium of Celebrity Fitness Workout DVDs. It's time to dust off those jogging bottoms, crack out the rice cakes and warm ourselves up for an in-depth analysis of THE Super Celebrity Fitness Workout DVD of 2010: Davina Fit.

The box art is fairly self explanatory; there's Davina McCall, the ex-Big Brother presenter and inexplicably popular loudmouthed British household name, dressed in sporty gear and leaning against what appears to be some white structure, probably the pyramid of cocaine she bought from her last DVD sales. She's got the kind of body that you only get from having a personal trainer, following a strict dietary routine and access to all sorts of fancy gym equipment, but don't let that put you off buying the DVD, because it's Davina, the voice of the people and if she deserves to look that good then so do you girlfriend. Let's pop this sucker in and see what all the fuss is about.

She's in yellow, in case you forget who the queen bee is

Yeah! Title menu's! I always judge a good DVD by it's ability to have title menu's. And where is it more important to have title menu's than on a Super Celebrity Heavyweight Fitness Workout DVD?  OK, let's start with 'Introduction'. There's Davina, looking nice and toned and the camera's zooming towards here and she's saying stuff but I can't concentrate because it's all happening so fast and now she's gurning and what was that I don't even but it's OK because that's over now and we're moving onto the next topic and she's predictably fluffed her lines but she's carrying on because she's a professional and where the hell is the fitness this is just like some presenter trying out her half-assed comedy routine but no she's clapping her hands so it must be business time oh yeah quick transition of fitness montages and straight back to Davina for more gurning and predictable line fluffing and now it's over but wait did I learn anything it's not important because Davina McCall spoke personally to me. Well, I imagined 'Introduction' would be a basic rundown of some warm-ups and stretching exercises, but instead it's a rather bizarre story from Davina about how much she loves exercising. Now Davina, I have no problem with people being passionate about their work, but that's twenty minutes you just spent talking about it, by which time your audience have sat down and started stuffing themselves stupid with the nearest fatty food they can lay their hands on to quell the maddening disappointment at never  being able to be as enthusiastic about loving their own children as you are about keeping fit.

The next title selection is of the four 30 minute workouts; 'Aerobic Fit', 'Top Fit', 'Bottom Fit' and 'Kick Fit' and the bonus 'Yoga Stretch'. I went straight for 'Top Fit' because it sounded the most manly as there was no way I was about to watch the choreographed school disco which was undoubtedly going to be the premise of 'Aerobic Fit'. Finally we get to some actual workout routines. We're introduced to Davina's dopplegangers; ex-marine Mark who looks like a camp Jason Statham and ex-dinner lady Jackie who looks like she still is a dinner lady. Mark is the one who barks the orders for the two woman and yourself to follow,  and from his constantly bitter expression you can tell he's only getting paid a fraction of what Davina gets despite this being his carefully planned routine as her fitness instructor. Tough luck buster because that's the way the fitness world works, you spend hours training up some high-profile celebrity only for them to put their name to your technique and reap the rewards.

Yeah, probably best to leave the old one out for this

So we start with our warm-ups for five minutes and they're actually really good, I can feel my limbs stretching and toning already. I'm finding it a bit hard to try and not disturb the people living below me as much as possible so I lay some cushions on the floor as a noise dampener which works pretty well, (that's a protip for you lard bags living in shared accommodation. Write it down). Then, just as I'm feeling great about the whole thing and planning my next 6 months around doing this routine every day, Mark announces it's time to go and get the weights. I stare dumbfounded as they actually stop the routine to go and get their weights while I think; hang on, I don't have any weights, if I had weights I wouldn't need this stupid Super Celebrity Heavyweight Maximum Fitness Workout DVD. If I had weights Mark I would be doing some curls and dead-lifts right now without your stupid guidance, Davina's constant gurning or that tinny rendition of "I Feel Free" by Belinda Carlisle. I suppose for the 'Bottom Fit' they ask you to get your exercise bike out, and woe betide anyone who failed to buy a James Corden calender as target practice for 'Kick Fit'.

I don't know, I didn't check. I realised after the weight fiasco that I had left the front door on the latch, and my neighbours had more than likely walked past and seen my sliding around in my jogging bottoms on cushions whilst Davina McCall shouted at me to think of how good I would look in a bikini all year round. I don't care how good I was going to look in my bikini, I am not in the habit of making a fool of myself. 4 out of 10, because I at least learnt that gurning counts as exercise now.

The Argee Bhajee, 88-90 George Street, Walford

Nothing says fine Indian cuisine like blue wrought-iron lattice

Before I begin, I would like to apologise to you all for my three day hiatus. I know many of you have come to depend on this blog as a mini-guide to understanding the World around you, and for that you have nothing but my unreserved pity and a vague feeling of disgust. However, I have in my absence prepared for you a delectable review of one of England's least understood and oft-forgotten stalwarts of Indian culinary delights; The Argee Bhajee.

Firstly, a brief history of this fine establishment. Originally owned by the Di Marco family and operating as an Italian pizzaria under the name 'Giuseppe's', it was eventually taken over in 2000 by an elusive restaurateur who refuses to disclose any information as to his or her personal life. In late 2010 Walford's leading Indian restaurant briefly became the subject of much debate between rivalling entrepreneurs when it mysteriously appeared on the market, resulting in a fierce auctioning war eventually won by a local family known as the Masoods. Is it possible that these previous market stall traders have the ability to maintain and preserve the Argee Bhajee's reputation? Let's tighten our napkins, ask politely for a jug of tap water and prepare to delve into this three course meal of a review. I hope you've saved room, because this one's super-sized.

My excitement at being one of the first people to experience the newly revamped Argee Bhajee was immediately quelled on walking through the door. Part of the secret to delivering the perfect evening to one's customers as a restaurateur is to create an ambience which not only makes your guests feel relaxed and at ease, but also displays the restaurants own character, which should be instantly recognisable through the decorations and layout. It was obvious that the new owners were in a rush to open as soon as possible, because on walking in I was greeted with what I can best describe as a half finished building, in the most literal of senses. 

You're right Sir, she does look like a tandoori chicken

There was only three walls in the building, leaving a gaping hole in one side which led to what appeared to be a local production company. This sharing of workspace was obviously not working fairly in the Masood's favour, as what appeared to be an entire film crew had spilled through the wall and were taking up most of the paltry space in the restaurant. I noticed there was only one other couple in the entire place, who for good reason seemed slightly agitated with the various cameramen and sound people who for some reason had clustered around them. 

Unnoticed by any apparent Maitre d' I decided to quietly seat myself in a far corner and wait to see how long it would take to be served. After a final glance at the couple in the centre of the room continuing to argue with each other amidst the bizarre collection of production crew around them I decided to see what the menu had to offer. I could not believe it when I picked up the orange backed laminate only to discover a single shet of A4 inside it with absolutely nothing printed on it. As I reached for another menu to see if this was just a single mistake, a piercing shriek wailed out from the middle of the room; "RICKAAAAAAAY", and I turned to see the flame-haired female, understandably upset with her boyfriend for taking her to this bombshell of a restaurant, dousing the spade-faced cretin with her glass of Pinot Grigio.

At this point I decided I had had enough, and stood up to seek out someone who would be able to provide me with some sort of menu, that I could finally eat something, anything. I went over to one of the crew and asked him if he knew where the waiter was, as I was absolutley starving. "Waiter's not in this scene mate" came his gruff reply, "buffet's over there if you're hungry, but I didn't think we had any extras in this scene." Ignoring his other comments as he seemed a bit simple, I noticed the buffet he had pointed out laid out on the other side, comprising of some poorly slapped together triangular sandwiches, minature pork pies and a few bowls of crisps. I nibbled on what I thought was a breaded onion bhajii, doubtless part of the nouveau-cuisine style I expected the Masoods were going for, but immediatly spat it out when I realised it was nothing more than a scotch-egg.

You can almost see those smiles melting off their faces

Having been subjected to enough unpleasantness, I prepared to leave but was stopped as I approached the door by a man with a clipboard. "Hey, where are you going? Extras are supposd to wait in the room back there." "Sir," I replied with as much dignity as I could muster at this point "I assure you I have no idea to what you are talking about, but you can be certain I will not be staying here a moment longer. I came here expecting to have my taste-buds tantalised and my senses overloaded with East London's premier Indian culinary prowess. Instead I have witnessed a third rate circus act performed by shouting monkeys which seems to be being filmed for some unexplained reason by an inept crew in one of the most unconvincing excuses for a restaurant setting." "Shit," he said, "that's probably the best review Eastenders has ever had."

A tasteless 2 out of 10, because they at least had cheese and Marmite sandwiches, and I love cheese and Marmite sandwiches.

Alpha 60 Silk Rhino Print Sweat

Jurgen VanTramp - The glittering career begins

Look at this photo. I mean really look at it. Take a few minutes to completely scrutinise every facet of this image, then try to think what the glaring mistake may be; bearing in mind that this is a photo designed to promote a sweater, the defining feature of which is that it has the head of a rhino on the front of it. Keep pondering over that as you read this review, and at the end we'll see if you got it right or not. (No cheating by scrolling down now, Remember: winners never cheat; unless they're Tiger Woods at a golf tournament sponsored by Playboy Magazine)

First things first, if you really wanted to look like half a rhino's face had charged through your torso and stopped just short of actually breaking through your stomach's epidermis, you would be required to pay ASOS a whopping £170. If you have a hard time grasping the concept of numerical currency, that's the equivalent of 22.31 35cl bottles of Bell's whiskey from behind the counter of the Tesco Metro on Whiteladies Road in Bristol. This in turn adds up to a grand total of 780.85cl, roughly 7.8 litres of  the cheapest mid-quality blended scotch whiskey. If you laid each of those litres end to end it would probably work out to be around the length of a Citroen Zsara Estate. Now that's a meaty length of the true amber nectar by anyone's standards, yet that is honestly how much ASOS equate the price of one of their wearable boulder-scrotums.

Fuck you ASOS, how much money do you think the average Joe spends on clothes? I myself own a fairly  snazzy suit that I bring out only for special occasions, and it cost £140. That's including every-fucking-thing; shoes, trousers, black shirt, waistcoat, red tie (hells yeah) and the crowning glory of the fitted blazer. Don't you dare try and suggest that there exist people stupid enough to spend this much money on a jumper that looks like an Easter Island statue's arse after it's sat on one of the Muppets.

Yes Jurgan, you are earning your three pounds an hour

This here is the moment the photographer obviously asked his model to turn around to flaunt the awesome two-way mirage this design portrays. As Jurgan VanTramp clearly shows, the back is the best feature of the sweatshirt because it in no way tries to emulate the skin of a rhino and thus leads to zero disappointment. According to my own private sources, the story behind old Jurgan VanTramp here is that the designer was auditioning for models to show off this tour de force of an upper garment, when in shuffled this guy towards the end of the proceedings. He was supposed to be carrying out part of his community service by cleaning up the graffiti behind the disused Anderson shelter from where the interviews were being conducted and had only briefly crawled inside to sneak a crafty cigarette away from his watchful probation officer. He wasn't exactly the epitome of what one seeks in a male model, but was hired on the spot as he'd been the only person to show up that day.

Notice how elegantly the cuff's trim matches that of the waistband, stopping dead in it's tracks any passing resemblance this jumper has of an actual rhino. This is an obvious attempt by the designer to diffuse the amount of people who would, upon bearing witness to an aficionado of animal-wear such as this on any given high street leaping head-first into the nearest shop window in a futile attempt to avoid the oncoming onslaught of what they may perceive to be a charging rhinoceros protecting its young.

Did you guess it? Probably not. Sucks to be you. 

Now I don't pretend to possess many Photoshop abilities, everything I know of that particular Adobe program is self taught. Yet even I can turn the original photo into something that better shows off the sweaters' capabilities. Simply by having asked Jurgan to pump his right arm, the photographer could have given the impression of this 'Silk Rhino Print Sweat' as actually having a horn. I mean seriously, who wants a photo-realistic print of a rhino's left eye and nostril? If I wear a t-shirt with a rhino print on it, I want to be making up for something. I want to prove my manliness to the whole world. I want to be able to walk into any bar in Glasgow and scream "I've got a rhino on my t-shirt, and if any of you try to fuck with me I will destroy everything you've ever seen!" 

And you can be sure it is never, ever, going to be capable of that unless it has on it the rhino's pinnacle of evolutionary manhood, the same kind of defensive organic horn that middle aged men the World over crush into little blue pills in the vague hope of emulating the same structures' constant virility. I hereby award it a paltry 3 out of 10, and that is just because ASOS managed to find a model as pathetically dishevelled looking as the actual piece of clothing they were trying to sell.