Take Me Out: the dating show as biological metaphor

ITV1's new dating show Take Me Out has become required viewing at Manflet Mansions - partly because of cocksure cupid Paddy McGuinness (one half of Phoenix Night's Max and Paddy) but primarily because of its jaw-droppingly regressive portrayal of male/female "relationships".

The bastard child of Blind Date, TMO has inherited its prime time Saturday night slot, but bears little more than a passing resemblance to the Cilla Black love-match. Here, the concept of a cheeky northern monkey host "helping" people to find "love" through humiliation is flipped into a kind of speed-dating talent show, where one single man works to prove himself (read: shows off) to a panel of 30 available women. If they don't like what they see, a woman can hit a buzzer to turn off the light on their podium, and whoever is left "turned on" (geddit?) at the end goes on a date with the lucky(?) feller.

Stunningly, this update of Blinda Daaate makes the original seem downright progressive. While Cilla's show was founded on principles of equality (men and women taking turns to pick potential partners) and romance (being "blind" necessitating a search below the surface for a connection), Take Me Out is purely biological. When the show's website refers to the "survival of the fittest", the double entendre barely conceals Paddy's true intentions: to help females find the most suitable mate.

While the women on Take Me Out come in all shapes, sizes, ages and backgrounds, and cover a range of appearances from Hanging to Just Plain Rough, the successful male contestants are always good looking (from the neck down), or rich, or both. According to show, what women want rarely runs deeper than a man's skin, or more accurately, his muscles: his "body builder's build", his "guns", or - weirdly specific this one - "shoulders". The question "beauty or brains" is bandied around a lot, and never conclusively answered, but all the signs point squarely towards the former. The two girls who were asked the question outright gave the cop-out response "both", but then they were talking to a trainee doctor and owner of the aforementioned shoulders. A man with a degree in medicine and a dating chart on his fridge (2 points for a random) - an educated fool.

The men play up to this shallow attitude during the round in which they show off their "talents". From wrestler to gymnast to "butler in the buff", most perform at least half-naked (even the fire breather, which was a health and safety nightmare). Those that don't stack up physically subtly draw attention to the size of their wallet. I drink wine = I'm posh = I have money. I drum = I was in a band in the 70s = I have money. When this middle-aged prune of a former pop star (now strip club owner) walked away with a twentysomething under the pretext that she likes "rockers", I almost sicked on myself. But I got the message loud and clear: men are either protectors or providers; there are no soul-mates, only suitable sexual mates.

But while Take Me Out may be concerning, it is also compelling. It's classic car-crash telly, a pile-up between Darwin's horse and carriage and a white van carrying amateur porn. Be appalled by it on ITV Player NOW.

Fuck Killing In The Name, what are we sending to Number One next Christmas?

OK, so we got Rage Against The Machine to the top of the Christmas singles chart - but let's not get complacent. If we're to silence the critics who are citing the tradition of novelty festive number ones, and painting Zack De La Rocha as a kind of politically-conscious Mr Blobby, we have to make sure this isn't a one-off. We have to prove that this was not just one in the eye for Simon Cowell or a neat illustration of the potential of grassroots marketing through social media, but evidence of a real alternative that can do what the fuck it likes - with nothing more than 79p and impeccable taste. That's why Manflet is already making suggestions for Christmas Number One 2010:

Nirvana - Smells Like Teen Spirit
Appeals to the same generation that backed Killing In The Name: old enough to remember when the seasonal chart-topper was less of a shoe-in (if no less shit) than during the Xmas Factor era, but young enough to care what happens next year; with plenty of free time to spend on Facebook and, because we usually illegally download our music, loads of spare cash to waste on tracks we already own. And as with De La Rocha's, um, rage, Kurt Cobain lends a voice to our frustration with the music industry, his refrain "here we are now / entertain us" throwing down the gauntlet to whatever chump Cowell is fast-tracking to fame at the time.

Radiohead - Creep
Ticks all the same boxes as Nirvana, but with the added bonus that the songwriter is still around to enter into intelligent debate. And just like RATM, Radiohead are likely to lend the campaign some gravitas by dedicating proceeds to some charity that you and I are too selfish to donate to. Plus, can you imagine what fun the YouTube mentals could have making video clips of Simon Cowell mouth along to the lyrics "I'm a creep / I'm a weirdo"? LOL!

Peaches - Jump On Santa's Sleigh (Fuck The Pain Away)
Get this: we get Peaches to re-record her filthcore electroclassic with radio friendly lyrics about reindeers and snowmen and shit. She ditches the merkin and shaves her armpits and we market her as Lady Gaga's older, less edgy sister. Next, we book her on Wogan's Radio 2 show for a chat and a live performance. Take it away Peaches: FUCK THE PAIN AWAY FUCK THE PAIN AWAY FUCK THE PAIN AWAY...

Western Philosophy

For years, I've resisted the seemingly natural, universal human emotion that is Hating Kanye West.

Sure, he's arrogant, even more so than other rappers - but, I figured, with good reason. While he's not the genius he clearly thinks he is, he is still capable of genius. Last year's 808s and Heartbreaks, for example, is not only one of the most emotional and experimental hip hop albums, but one of the most affecting works of pop ever. Even my parents love everything he does (apart from "the language"), so *hearting* the man my mum calls "Kanny" is a family affair.

Even if I could find it in me to hate Yeezy, it would be a pointless pursuit. As he explains in his book Thank You And You're Welcome, "I would rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I'm not". And "love your haters - they're you're biggest fans".

But this book could mark a turning point in my feelings towards West. According to him, this "entertaining volume of 'Kanye-isms' - the creative, humorous and insightful philosophies used in creating my path to success... captures the same wit, playful irony, and piercing insight found abundant in my lyrics". Well, if you usually turn to Dr Phil or Tyra Banks for your piercing insight, there's every chance that these 50-odd pages of trite self-help slogans could be your path to enlightenment. The only thing stopping the rest of us free thinking, sentient beings from ramming this book up the author's ass is the fear that it's so unsubstantial that he wouldn't even feel it.

You can "read" sample pages here or even buy a copy from Kanye's website, if "believe in your flyness... conquer your shyness" sounds like the kind of homespun homeboy philosophy you can embrace, so I'll focus on what I found to be the most disappointing spread, entitled "Embrace your flaws". Here West recounts the story of having eight teeth removed and braces fitted as a child, to illustrate the point that "I don't believe in accepting a changeable condition... sometimes it takes a little polishing to truly shine". One wonders whether his mum, whom the book is dedicated to, was thinking exactly the same kind of bullshit while she was wheeled into the cosmetic surgery operating theatre where she died.

Kanye's feelings of guilt and culpability about paying for the combined breast reduction and tummy tuck that killed his mum are well documented. In fact, it is his exploration of these emotions on ...Heartbreak that made it a masterpiece, and songs like Pinnocchio Story that led me to believe that the artist had completely re-evaluated his life: "There is no Gucci I can buy/There is no Louis Vitton to put on/There is no YSL they could sell/To get my heart out of this hell/And my mind out of this jail". But it seems that silver-lining benefits like self-awareness, sensitivity and an awareness of reality were temporary and short-lived.

After all (page 21), "You should be happy right?"

Idol Threats

FUCK YOU AMERICA!

You've made the wrong person American Idol AGAIN!

Oh well. At least we don't have to hear Adam Lambert sing that godawful "winner's" song again, or see him straighten out and lose his "sparkle" - or whatever you call that Matt Bellamy-meets-Robert Plant-meets-Cher flamin' emo melodrama.

Hopefully my felt-tip fanboy picture will stop his guyliner from running. I'll send it to him along with a note warning him to avoid the inevitable draw towards musical theatre, and the peanut butter and painkillers that brought down the King he so resembles, and advise him to "do a Daughtry" (like that other legendary Idol loser) and form a band.

My Chemical Romance - watch your asses!

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Mandates

You've got to give it to MTV. Just when they seem to have covered reality TV in all its tacky, exploitative (and endlessly entertaining) permutations, they pull something else out of the bag. Bromance is a competitive dating show in the vein of Flavor of Love and A Shot At Love With Tila Tequila, but with a difference: these guys are fighting over a guy. Only the contestants don't seem gay - unless there's a subset of American homosexuals so obsessed with their own masculinity that they've made macho bullshit their mating call. No. While they may be competing for another man's heart, they have just one thing on their mind: "an intense brotherly bond that makes two buddies become virtually inseparable". Ah...bromance.

Even when you get your head around the are-they-aren't-they quasi-queerness of the show, seeing heterosexual men in dating scenarios is just plain weird. Granted, riding tiny pink BMXs over obstacle courses and modeling super-skinny jeans aren't typical dates, but they serve the same old purpose: getting to know the other person well enough to decide whether or not to "take things further". Women do this all the time - they go on "lunch dates" with their "girlfriends", and talk candidly and affectionately... and all in pure and simple enjoyment of one another's company. The closest we men get to this is when we tag along on one of our other half's lunch dates, and have to entertain someone else's bored boyfriend/husband.

Of course, this isn't a problem if you know the fellow, but a first - or worst, a blind - platonic same-sex date can be just as awkward as the regular kind. So best to avoid anything too intimate, and follow our top tips for great "mandates":

\m/ Pub - Alcohol's a great lubricant, even if the only thing you're slipping into is easy conversation. And if the chat doesn't flow, there are plenty of distractions - pool tables and dart boards (if you're into the old "sports"), TV, juke box, other people... In fact, you can set up a "meeting your mates here" arrangement just in case things get real bad.

\m/ Gig - If you and your "date" have music taste in common, exploit it. A concert is a great way to avoid conservation for an evening, and allows you to tap into your fanboy teen-self - that guy who could get on with anyone who can tell their hardcore metal from their metalcore.

\m/ Cinema - Works in much the same way as a gig - no talking needed - but with the added advantage that film is a medium in which almost anything can be tolerated. A movie will eat up a good three hours, morning noon or night, and - good or bad - will give you something to talk about afterwards.

\m/ Shopping - But shopping with a purpose. Aimlessly wandering around town is just like being with the missus, but without being able to whinge, because it was your idea. However, give a man a clear, time-bound task - "we need to find a cheap new iPod within the hour, before I reach my boredom threshold" - and he'll be happy.

Daddy Cool

The other day, I was buttoning up my new purple linen shirt (Uniqlo, of course), and I was struck with a sense of déjà vu. I'd seen this somewhere before, hadn't I? And then it dawned on me - my dad has this exact same shirt (only from M&S). It's even his colour. Now, I've made peace with the fact that I'm fast becoming my father - I've even made a headstart on the beard and the barrel-gut - but this could be a slippered step too far. 

At least I'm not alone.  The holy style trinity of Topman, the ASOS newsletter and the guy-hards of Broadway Market (London Fields, darling) confirms that everyman's wardrobe is aging prematurely.  The cardigans and thick-rimmed specs of geek chic have been incorporated into a kind of geezer chic: chinos and deck shoes, topped off with full beard and a comb-over.  No doubt a seasoned fashion hack with a neat line in bullshit would theorise about these turbulent times driving men to seek out comfort, or to emulate their first model of masculinity... but I'll content myself with rifling through my dad's drawers for some sweet elasticated trousers.

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Just Donk It

A few remixes churned out by donkdj.com, which (finally!) allows you to follow the example of the Blackout Crew and put a "bangin' donk" on your favourite tunes. If the hoodie-house collective have passed you by, then check out this five-part documentary which tracks them down to Bolton, the "Mecca of Donk".

Adamski - Killer

When getting your donk on, think outside the (big fish little fish cardboard) box. Blackout Crew have already covered "bassline!... electro!... techno!" and most house comes pre-donked. Killer is an exception to this rule, being song-based and slow enough to yield utterly ludicrous results. Seal's vocals pitch up so high that he sounds like Akon caught in his zipper, and the final breakdown is more of a meltdown - as the drum machines run each other down and happy-slap each other silly.

The Fugees - Ready Or Not

Blackout Crew didn't invent Donk; they just gave it a name. Back in the 90s, Original Donkaz like The Course kept clubs like Bonkers, um, tonking with their remixes of pretty much every song that hit the charts. Well crap time-keeping and what sounds like a technical error from donkdj.com means that their version of Ready Or Not is still the original and the best. Except for the Fugees one. And that Enya song it sampled.

Blackout Crew - Put A Donk On It

It had to be done. I ignored all the pop-ups warning me about potential over-donkings, and went for it. I was feeling reckless. Like a chav pimping up his Cosworth, I figured there was no such thing as too fast, or too loud. I even ticked the box for"extreme chipmunk". The results? Predictable, but no less satisfying for it. Donk to the power of Donk.

Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody

To be fair to the Blackout boys, most people miss the complexity of their magnum opus. The oft-overlooked mid section when the track breaks down to just nursery-rhyme MCing, acoustic guitar and the most delicate of donks is paedo-prog heaven. The only song I could find that could live up to this was Bohemian Rhapsody - which, here, is by turns messy and exhilarating. Picture Wayne and Garth shaved down to a grade one, doing donuts in the Mirthmobile until they puke blue WKD on each other.

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Cover Me

A manchild is born.

And to announce our birth, we decided against posting a crude drawing of a three-headed, bearded freakbaby being spat into the world, and instead made you a mixtape.

Called "Cover Me", it's a musical tribute to our fairy blog-mothers - grrl-ziners Pamflet - and features our favourite guys doing versions of songs by our favourite gals. Skip over to 8tracks and check it out.

Get all warm down there, and all confused up top, as Manflet's man Mike Patton croons, "I just wanna be a woman". Chuckle in disbelief as Attack Attack!'s frontboy, who sounds all of 12, brags "I kissed a girl and I liked it". And, at the end of it all, find yourself agreeing with the Deftones that "this is no ordinary love".

If you like this, and can get to London, you can catch the PamfletManflet DJ Team at, um, Catch on Kingsland Road. More details on the sexXxy flyer.

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