How The $#!* Did This Get Made?

In today's How The $#!* Did This Get Made?, we take a look at BBC Three television programme How Not To Live Your Life.

How Not To Live Your Life then? If you are an aspiring writer/actor/director, exactly like this:

Hieronymus Bosch (c. 1511)

 If you desire to be damned as devil-spawn, to be spurned by your fellow man, to be whipped and beaten and cast out like Connor MacLeod, then this effort, this turd-sodden quiche of a show, offers an unsurpassed guide as to how to live your life, both in content and execution.

How (Not) To Live Your Life:

1. Through witchcraft, dominate the minds of the BBC's team responsible for the commissioning of comedy.
2. Dip an ant's feet in ink, as per the BBC's submission guidelines.
3. Release said ant onto 90 gsm.
4. Send result to brainwashed team, with an offer to play the lead.

Ladies and gentlemen, today I bore witness to proof that the above method not only works, but results in recommissioning. There are now three whole series.

THREE. MIND-UNSPOOLING. SERIES.

Disclaimer: I could only watch for a few minutes, at which point the aneurysms became too frequent to continue. I apologise to all concerned if the remaining 5/6ths were 21st Century Shakespeare.

Around the 00:01:00 mark, I questioned what sins I had committed that would deserve such brain-fisting torment. Surely no God was this vengeful? And yet, Dante could not have envisioned Brutus in worse agony than that served upon me by the comedic stylings of one Dan Clark.

I'm not naturally a wrathful person, my philosophy being generally maim-and-let-maim, and let bygones be bygones; so it was an understandable shock to experience the work of a spirit so antagonistic to my own. How Not To Live Your Life is plainly the work of a vicious, brutal bully, who, desirous to strip the world of all fair-play, decency and Englishness, has, colubrine, blighted our souls with his crippling, festering comedy.

To fully grasp the monotonous violence of Mr Clark's crime, rendered hatefully in sound and moving pictures, consider a victim's response. One does not simply "not laugh" at the discrete events identified as jokes by interminable, SG1-esque reaction shots. No. One unlaughs.

What? Unlaughs, you say? Surely these are the Cromwellian fairies of a puritanical void, a grey, senseless realm of which few poets dared dream? Not the stuff of reality.

Sadly, I would that were true. No, I unlaughed until I could bear to watch no more, each joke stripping forever from me a happy memory, a childhood pratfall or game. Each joke left me less a man, and mankind less a dreamer. I fear to sleep now, lest this comedian's witticisms return in the night and claim the ruins of my soul.

That said, there was one moment that wasn't ear-shaftingly awful - Nick Mohammed's line "On with the show, my rancid little puppets". I liked that. But just as a Nazi commandant is not absolved of his crimes by once choosing organic eggs the supermarket, no single gust of sweet-smelling, rose-petal comedy could redeem the scat pile that is How Not To Live Your Life.

In conclusion, I fully support and endorse any attempts made by those responsible for this thirty minute stain to Not Live Their Lives anymore - Thank you.