Sex Farm

I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” said my old mate Warren Zevon at the height of the all-night party but when The Doctor finally came a-calling two weeks ago he actually found him taking a nap. And so it was that Zevon’s prediction was inverted. “I’ll die when I sleep,” was not a scenario he might have wished to consider but when, as he himself had previously noted whilst musing on mortality, “some get the knife, some get the gun”, all things considered, his was not the most terrible final act of an eventful and ultimately rewarding life.

So, yes, I’m thinking a lot about ol’ Warren these days, which is one of the reasons why his wise words sprang to mind when I returned from my holidays – a very enjoyable if somewhat hush hush shooting safari in South Africa – to discover that the whole country had gone mad about a reality tv show set on a farm. Remember what Zevon said about the rural idyll? “There ain’t much to country living – sweat, piss, jizz and blood”.

Barndoor slammed
Having seen absolutely none of the programme, like any good professional pundit I am therefore in the perfect position to declare that Celebrity Farm was entirely lacking in sweat, piss, jizz and blood, all of that, apparently, being reserved for the apres show airwaves, chatshows and, the way things are shaping up, perhaps even the court rooms.
It seems to be the Irish way with reality TV – Cabin Fever only became interesting when the fucking boat sank and Celebrity Farm only made headlines after the barndoor was slammed. Maybe, the lesson is that, in future, RTE, Tyrone and the rest should save money by simply cutting out the middle-man. In other words, dispense with the pointless programme-making and instead just round up a few “personalities” who detest each other and set them loose on the airwaves in a kind of minor-celebrity death match.
Either that, or make proper reality television a la Snort.
If they set Celebrity Farm in the grounds of Snort Towers, for example, the welly we’d give it wouldn’t be made of rubber. (Though virtually everything else would be). Instead, we’d set our contestants a series of challenges designed to reflect the reality of rural life – but tweaked just a little to appeal to the Xcess Generation.
So, in no particular order, our guests would be obliged to: starve a donkey, dump illegally, brew Angel Dust, smuggle across the border, falsify EU papers, build an ugly bungalow without planning permission, shoot ramblers, stuff 25 live chickens into a biscuit tin, burn 100 head of cattle whether suspected of Foot and Mouth or not, herd sheep with Rottweillers, bull fight with AK 47’s and, in a fantastic programme finale that would ingeniously combine Cabin Fever and Celebrity Farm, our contestants would be airlifted onto that Australian ship currently stranded in the Gulf to spend a couple of months with the 50,000 diseased sheep slowly being chargrilled alive because no country wants to have the poor bastards. Once we find a way to work in a barnyard sex challenge that won’t involve cruelty to animals – we don’t want to see any self-respecting hen brought into the library in Lillie’s, for example – the final winning package will be complete.

Prominent mazoomas
Sam’s other great idea is live sex on the telly. Okay, okay, I can see the objections – that’s porn, Sam, the exploitation of men and women just because they happen to have prominent mazoomas or Californian Redwood-style porkswords.
Ah, but here’s my genius twist. Porn involves actors having sex, lashings of baby oil and terrible dialogue, yeah? Whereas my show would involve real people having sex, lashings of baby oil and terrible dialogue. Reality tv, see?
Needless to say, in this particular version Big Brother will have more than a, shall we say, bit part to play. And unlike in other more run of the mill reality shows, it’ll also be up to Big Brother to vote the bedmates in or out. Or both, sez you, with a dirty laugh.
Meanwhile, back on Sam’s Celebrity Farm, the catchy title tune will be Mr Z’s. Altogether now: “Grandpa’s doin’ sister Sally, grandma’s dyin’ of cancer now, the cattle all got brucellosis, we’ll get through sonehow/Sweet home Alabama, play that dead band’s song, turn the music up full blast, play it all night long…”
An’ ah thank ah know jest what he’s a talkin’ ‘bout.
Your ever-lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq