Most Haunted Live: No Particular Reason- by Liam R
There are things in life people enjoy doing, things that you don’t enjoy but have to do it anyway. There are things which are done out of obligation, kindness or impulse. Watching Most Haunted Live and reviewing it is not one of those things. If anything, this past weekend has been the equivalent of being dragged kicking and screaming for my own personal execution, but the firing squad reveal that they have only paintball guns and proceed to shot my sensitive male areas with no regard to my as-yet-unattempted tries to reproduce. And as anyone who watched this weekend’s tragic 9 hours of mind-bending tedium will testify, I am not joking.
Of course, this isn’t the first Most Haunted Live (henceforth referred to as MHL as I’m loathe to keep writing those three words over and over and fucking over again) I’ve reviewed, nor is it the first one I’ve watched. It is the one I have most looked forward to, though the reasons for that particular conclusion are probably as long as the reasons I have to masturbate every night rather than go to bed with a woman. But I digress, so for reasons unknown I was looking forward to it. Ever since Pendle Hill – with it’s multiple (confused) possessions, mass hysteria, breaking glass and high comedy values – MHL had reached a high-point of ludicrousness and absurdity that not even Monty Python could aspire to. Then came Derekgate – where Parapsychologist Ciaran O’Keefe (six months after those lovely people at BadPsychics had done the same by the way) basically told the national media that indeed ‘psychic medium’ Derek Acorah had been bullshitting his way through the fiasco and getting possessed by made up people – and the ensuing aftermath for the show which in turn lead to an interesting development which we will talk about in a little bit. The final straw came with the show in Liverpool , which featured Jamie er-um-D-D-DDarling stuttering his way through his cues, ‘psychic medium/hairdresser’ Gordon Smith exuding all the charisma of a molten tea tray and less hysterical crap than ever before. In truth, MHL had reached it’s zenith with Pendle Bollocks and was now at it’s nadir, and it needed a change and badly. So what exactly happened this weekend?
Night One: Tell Jason Lee I’m Sorry
The voiceover before it starts proclaims this as the TV event of the week and I immediately call bollocks. We also have a remixed theme tune, which in all honesty is just the old one with varying degrees of echo and reverb tacked on at odd intervals. We start out with Yvette Fielding calling Portsmouth one of the most active paranormal locations in the country, a line she has used to open up EVERY SINGLE FUCKING MOST HAUNTED LIVE EVER. You know who else ran out of material? Elvis Presley, though I doubt Ms Fielding would ever go near anything deep fried. Well not with David Wells around. Speaking of David Wells Pompey is his hometown which kind of defeats the point of having a psychic medium there in the first place (well, less than usual). Anyway, we have our first bloodletting in a while, as Stuttering Jamie Darling has been dumped for Paul Ross. Well at least he should be able to provide the required gravitas a program like this needs. Richard Jones, historian extraordinaire, is also missing in action presumed camping outside old presenter David Bull’s house. His replacement? Leslie Smith, a woman who’s claim to fame is dressing up as Mary Queen Of Scots and reciting a speech in a castle for the amusement of tourists. So ten minutes in, I am already struggling and so we must TAKE A SHORTEST OF SHORT SHORT BREAKS.
We are at Wymering Manor, we have nightvision, LET THE CRAP COMMENCE! The team all claim they are nervous, but that’s only half of the story as Rachel, the rather fit floor manager has been replaced with a man. Oh the humanatees!11!! This of course means no buttsecks? What do I mean?
No buttsecks for Liam tonight.
Onto the investigation and it’s here that my crack note-making techniques let me down as all I have written down is a stream of expletives that make no sense. From what I can remember (I was hammered) there are noises moving around Richard Felix’s feet. Hum. The insipid team then find columns of air about the height of a child. Quite convenient for a ghost show isn’t it? The comes first stupid line of the night as Wells finds the spirit of a sailor. I’ll let hkev of the BadPsychics board finish that one: “A sailor in Portsmouth ! What a shocker” but the stupidity isn’t just restrained to the medium as Yvette pipes up with “This always works. Tap out how many astrals are present.”
I mean seriously, what in the flying fuck is that supposed to mean? More lunacy abounds as the team then stumbles upon a horde of monks who didn’t exactly keep their vows. Ever seen Ken Russell’s ‘The Devils’? Me neither, but apparently it features nuns wanking over crosses. What the team describes involves fewer nuns and more monks. As time marches on, we in the chat room become increasing more annoyed at the length of the ad breaks and lack of *ahem* ‘investigating being carried out. Indeed when you get this sort of exchange, you really need a full on possession to liven things up a bit: “Cath has a body suit on!” “Just the one?” (cheers GSH & parceltongue). The next thing we know, Wells is feeling drained, then the next he is sensing food. Mmmm, bargain bucket. Wells increasingly crap performance seems to have driven datcat insane as well: “Why does wells look like someone has suggested he perform a sex act with a frozen chicken?” and “look at his gob – more turn than a trout”.
With the night rolling on towards a dull conclusion, the team get attacked by rocks (the same as in the driveway of the Manor), the new (bastard) floor manager fakes appendicitis and the team horribly exploit Ciarn O’Keefe’s personal life as a way to prove the existence of the paranormal. I call it arse for a reason you know.
Total run time: 176 minutes. Total adverts: 50 minutes.
Day Two: I missed bug eating for this
Shocker to start, as Living TV finally conforms to the ISA’s recommendations and calls the program psychic entertainment, which you can read between the lines and basically call it as Living saying the programme is a load of fake crap. Hooray! Well after the previous night’s shitfest I feel that for you, the good readers of this most awful of websites, I must continue though I really don’t see the point anymore. That was the case, until the second night where we learned that samurai legend Karl Beattie and new medium Ian Shilititillio (I may or not have mentioned that he was on board last night) were going to be stuck inside a coffin and buried alive. Well not buried alive, because they’d die and that would be a really, really terrible thing to happen on live TV. So you’re running theme or joke depending on your point of view was that of COFFIN CAM, not surprisingly a camera in the coffin.
But aside from that sweet fuck all happens apart from the arm falling off of a suit of armour just as Richard Felix went past it (not at all convenient, oh noes), and someone un-named who was probably Paul Ross calling this night “the most ambitious broadcast in the history of the universe”. Now I’m all for hyperbole, but wasn’t there a certain thing about landing on the moon? Broadcasting pictures of a pair of idiots buried under a foot of earth is not ambitious, broadcasting pictures from an atmosphere chunk of rock hundreds of thousands of miles away is.
Yvette then is apparently leered at by a laughing cavalier. Now apart from the vomit inducing image of anyone with an operating brain cell even having those sorts of thoughts about the bleached blonde troll, there is also the small matter that said laughing cavalier looked exactly like a waxwork dummy which resided in the upper or lower floors of the castle (I had long since stopped caring). Elsewhere in the coffin our insipid heroes hear rapping in the coffin and are apparently joined by the spirit of woman. Now I’m no woman (and if I was, I’d damn sure look like Salma Hayek) but if I was dead I wouldn’t exactly want to spend my afterlife with those two.
This is what the show needs more of. Tits. Lots and lots of tits. And not male ones either.
So another night of crap which could have been infinitely more enjoyable with Derek Acorah. I never thought I’d say it, but ever since we ran him out town we’ve all missed him.
Total run time: 176 minutes, Total adverts: 52 minutes.
Night Three: Jack Bauer Will Kill Me
The final stretch. The last lap. The vinegar strokes. However you call it, we’re finally at the end of MHL and I for one will miss it until the Summer Solstice when the fucker’s are back, no doubt with proton packs and PKE meters but that would give such a grave injustice to the majesty that is Ghostbusters that I may have to trundle down to the set and kill everyone I fucking see for the disrespect. Our final location is the Royal Marines Museum , a location I visited in my youth and remember it not being scary at all. Apart from the massive collections of weaponry of course.
Our first piece of retarded activity is when the crew are attacked by a ten pence piece. No doubt someone pocketed it, with my money being on slapheaded rigger/camera man/thrower of items Stuart Rivellvlelelslel. Julian “Look at those fucking ears” Clegg then introduces our experiment: psychic art. You can see my effort below:
I feel that these are irrelevant to Most Haunted Live
Line of the night must go to Paul Ross, who scores a verbal knockout on Yvette by announcing that “we need someone to join our brave band of investigators (audible pause) and Yvette Fielding”. Comedy Goldmine! The show drags away until Karl starts acting weird, saying that he wants to punch someone. David Wells, former navy man, does the noble thing and hides behind Yvette. Karl starts pulling progressively more amusing/psychotic faces until he does what all of us want to do and shoves Stuart on his arse. How I LOL’D
Yes I did LOL. L and L.
So that does it for another Most Haunted Live, and it’s obvious that the tank is empty. While Derek and the silliness that erupted at Pendle Hill remains the highpoint of the show – it was just so over the top but strangely compelling – that everything else was never going to live up to it. Now without Derek, who was the star of the show no matter how Antix wants to tar him as bollocks (which he is, but not as much as Antix) it’s just getting painful. *1/2 (out of *****) for the whole sorry mess.
So total weekend run time: 528 minutes
Total adverts: 155 minutes.
I think they made their money’s worth.