Media critic

Press more press. Radio West Piers first media critic.

Review of Radio West Pier Episode 3 by me Joolie Lurchdill in the Sunday Thames 1/10/07

God knows I've laughed, I've cried, I've screamed and I've ground my teeth but I don't think I've ever shat out an emotion until now-after watching Radio West Pier Episode 3. I sat down to watch this stuff with a bacon falafel ( like my good honest communist dad used to make) and a glass of Chateau Tres Moi, with an open mind. But really, what a waste of my time, when I could have been sharing the milk of my genuine proletarian kindness through a News International publication that doesn't have to pander to Muslim sensibilities or to Trotskyists who see the world through the bottom of their comfy beer glass. Anyway, back to the subject.

The opening scene almost says it all, with a sad Northener taking any opportunity to show his (thankfully pixellated) knob off at the first opportunity. And him doing that Evel Knevel stunt; the toy trucks he jumped over just screamed out his juvenility. And that bulge in his crotch? Socks. From Primark no doubt. And his sidekick Rico Mortis-what an old hippy he looks like. Haven't we had enough of teachers like that filling a new generation of brats with woolly liberalism that will come back to stab him? And I tell you I've actually met Mr Moronic Mortis, otherwise known as Eric Mahoganeigh. He was sitting at the same table as me in a pub, the Lion and Lobster in Brighton, and with an instinct honed by countless column inches I sussed him out as someone not worth knowing, and with honest journalistic integrity told the rest of the table so. But does he, this ageing hippy, act at all maturely? No, he repeats what I said, when all I want is for it to be overlooked. I mean, why didn't he make a comment about my vaginal hygiene while he was at it? I'm sorry, but I've lived in Brighton for a long time and with my social networking I would know if there was an underwater radio station under the West Pier. These are middle class bohemians (don't the oilskins say it all?) just playing around with a camera. They're not genuinely deserving working class like someone who writes for the Sunday Times. My fountain spurts truth. Trust me.