Louis Theroux: Drinking to Oblivion, BBC 2, 9pm

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b07952b1/louis-theroux-drinking-to-oblivion

Yesterday started much the same as always. I read the papers, Sunday Mail and The Observer. It was a bit of a surprise that The Observer had plagiarised two of my blogs. One was the Kevin Mc Kenna article about why Celtic are so shite but we love them anyway; the other about inequality, CEO salaries and executive pay. I don’t blame The Observer, after all I sometimes use their pages for source material and I have written over 200 blogs. Blog writing is a bit like chaining yourself to a fence, because somebody else is doing it. Nobody cares.  It might just be coincidence. But the only answer I could see was to drink myself to oblivion.

I’ve a bit of previous in this. Any time Celtic is playing, you can be sure I’m out at the pub drinking myself to oblivion. Really, if you’ve watched them this season you’d understand why. Ross County held us to a draw. Or we held them to a draw, I wasn’t sure which. I spend a lot of time looking at a screen and making up lies, when I’m out drinking myself to oblivion I try to tell even more lies. I tried to start a rumour that Celtic are signing Harry Kane as the next Celtic manager – because he’s one of our own. But like my blog writing nobody seemed that interested.

After drinking myself to oblivion I went up the road to fall asleep watching Match of the Day. Needless to say I’d Swansea to beat Leicester on my coupon, but I’d also Celtic to win and even the archenemies Rangers to win. This drinking yourself to oblivion does something to your brain cells.

I tried to stay away to watch Louis Theroux. Louis always looks the same, slightly surprised at anything that happens to those participating in his shows, which is no surprise as they tend to be familiar faces, oddballs or nutters. And Louis talking like at typewriter comments on what we can see on the screen. It’s a great gig having a production company that sells documentaries to the BBC. It’s the kind of thing I’d like to do when I’m not drinking myself to oblivion.

Louis visits King’s College Hospital in London which has a specialist liver unit. Most of the patients, not surprisingly, are people with problems with alcohol. There was nothing here that I hadn’t seen before in my local. If Louis had filmed me I’d have told him about the rumour Celtic were signing Harry Kane as player manager. Louis could have worn his usual bemused expression and asked some asinine question about my drinking. I’d have told him straight. Harry Kane, Celtic, honest.

What was dishonest about Louis’s whole show was the doctors and nurses playing doctors and nurses to the camera. Try turning up drunk at Accident and Emergency. Doctors spit on you. Nurses do everything but tell you to fuck off. They don’t rush outside and run down the street entreating you to come back for treatment and promising you a bed. This is fantasy land. This is mods and rockers waiting for the film crews and the cameras before they start scrapping. Come back in the morning when you sober up Louis. Your bemused smile is wearing a hole in my head.

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