Saturday, December 08, 2007
Katie and Peter: the saviours of primetime TV!
Lavinia's insistance that Rupert Everett has had a facelift (if true the poppet should demand a refund) reminds me that I wanted to pay tribute to Katie & Peter Unleashed, the brilliant ITV2 chatshow hosted by Jordan's alter ego Katie Price and her horny husband Peter Andre. Very sadly it ended last night. I demand that ITV recommision the series immediately, relocate it to ITV1, schedule it for Saturday evenings (after The X Factor leaves a gaping wound) and lengthen it from one to two hours. Without doubt Katie and Peter are the future of variety entertainment (primetime).
Rupes was most charmed by Katie last night - and normally he is a swine to interview. It's true they had bonded during an OK! mag interview some time past, when just about every sexual permutation was touched upon, but her innate and charming impertinence is sooooooo winning. Everett only ever seems to open up to guerilla incursion, probably because he is a fantastic reprobate himself: it's a case of entertainment homeopathy, like treats like. If he doesn't like his questioner he sinks into an insolent torpor: many a TV sofa has ended up resembling a crypt beneath his restless arse-cheeks.
Katie is not a showbiz pro and never will be (thank God), but she has that rare thing - no side at all. She is Lorraine Kelly's bitch sister - a total must-watch natural in front of the cameras. You feel she could say anything or do anything on a militant whim: to retain that edginess in the feathered pillow of processed TV is amazing and should be fully exploited (she is of course a Gemini).
Andre is the perfect foil. He is the show condom, a lubricant and a defence: he could narrate a WW2 doc, the Eurovision Song Contest or a royal funeral without a pause. Talking is his natural condition, he keeps up the show motion, eyes a-glow with the latest daffy, soon-forgotten thought. You feel safe in his hands while Katie hums with harmful kinetic potential: it's a balance forged in many a domestic row and subsequent bedroom make up; and the show is the beneficiary of this frisson. They are that rare entertainment couple: they make heterosexuality seem rather interesting.
I like the flips between behind-the-scenes and before-camera: how the pair looked disappointed when the brilliant comic Alan Carr pulled out and was replaced by the too-normal, bearded, Roland Rivron - "Who's he?" asked Katie. Fantastic. Rupes gazed at Rivron with slight but tolerant bemusement as the comic out-talked Pete and tried too hard: but they (Rivron and Rupes) bonded during the tats bit. I knew who Rupes had his eye on.
Their best interview was with Boy George last week - he looked clearly at ease on their claustrophobic set, in their faintly sulphuric atmosphere; there was no distance, physical or professional. He revealed he had never penetrated a woman (not exactly news, but nice to hear nonetheless) and Katie was so distracted that on last night's show she thought he had said that he had penetrated a woman but never gone down on one. Perfection. And let us not forget that it was on this show that Jermaine Jackson revealed that Michael would be joining the Jackson Five reunion tour. So they can deliver gold as well as brass.
The mud bath battles, the tattoo contests, the agony aunting and uncling, the short attention span: it's all pure tabloid TV at its best. I want to say it's pure Chav TV but I know Julie Burchill will go ballistic at sight of the word (chav).
There's no diploma for what Katie and Peter have got. There's no self-improvement course to make you like them. It they is, as Timbaland might say.