Pointless

Pointless. Without point. A game show, called Pointless, which is, of course, completely pointless.

Here’s a nice message I received from one devoted reader yesterday.

Last year I was sitting outside a pub in Soho with my brother when Alexander Armstrong walked past. He was wearing a snugly fitting peacoat that reached down to his shins, and he seemed to be in quite the hurry. The sight of a fairly long but strangely diminutive man walking quickly in a peacoat seemed to suggest that he may not have just two legs beneath the coat but hundreds, scurrying furiously.

Now, if I ever see Alexander Armstrong again, I’m going to kick him in the head. The man’s bought and paid for, he’s industry through and through. He has made a career out of a bullshit TV show that he clearly hates and that he probably didn’t even have the idea for in the first place. I doubt he even likes quizzes.

I wonder what dream he gave up on to become the nation’s biggest cuckold. Maybe he wanted to be the next Attenborough, or an after-school CBBC presenter, or maybe the wanted to make history documentaries like Lucy Worsley or culture pieces like Simon Reeve. Or maybe he never gave a toss. He just wanted his face and voice pumped into British homes every day at 5:30pm and was prepared to debase himself in any way necessary to get there.

“Hi Sally, what do you do? Oh, you’re a junior accounts executive? Oh, that’s fun!” No it isn’t, Xander, you total gimp. Xander, you shit-eating bullshit artist. Too good to be an ‘Alex’ are you? You’re a coward.

Thanks to Richard Osman for sending that in.