Warning, OUTRAGEOUS is a series of filth, swearing, insanity and gross images. The easily offended (and not so easily) and anyone under about 35 should stop reading right now!
Time Team, eh? What a show that is. Every week, Tony Robinson and a bunch of self-important, brain-dead derelicts find themselves a lumpy field, or beautifully manicured garden and defile them with a lot of pointless trenches, using mechanical diggers guaranteed to ruin anything of archaeological importance that is buried there because they only have a couple of days to film their rape of the soil and their deadline is what really matters. They dig up a right load of old shit anyway and then pretend to be excited by their inconsequential finds of bits of smashed jam jar circa 1956, which bear witness to the fact that somebody once ate a slice of toast somewhere nearby smeared with a blob of marmalade.
The only thing the Time Team ever seem to prove is that there used to be a wall somewhere that once belonged to a building of unknown origin and purpose, which was demolished because the roof leaked and it was no fucking use to man nor beast anymore and they needed the bricks to build a shitty council estate to imprison a load of chavs in. They know perfectly well what they’ve uncovered once made up the foundations of an outside crapper, but prefer to mislead their viewers by constantly referring to it as the “monastery library annex”.
Then that up-north sister-shagger with a degree in rock and a masters in old bric-a-brac, who thinks he’s Indiana pissing Jones, with his big floppy hat and filthy khaki shorts, gets his bollocks in a knot after unearthing a tiny piece of ancient Roman urn that could just as easily be a fragment of 1970’s casserole dish for all we know. In my opinion, all this pervy toss-bag is really getting up to throughout the show, is jumping in and out of failed digs in the desperate hope that one of the ladies on the team might get a glimpse of his semi-erect tadger up the leg of his flapping cut-offs.
To cap all his dodgy manoeuvres, when his Roman artefact turns out to be a scrap of broken flower-pot from the local garden centre, discarded about the same number of months back as the last time the greasy-haired git brushed his yellowing teeth, he doesn’t even say sorry.
When the flower-pot “bombshell” finally sets fire to the wood shavings in their roomy skulls, several of the ponsey-arse pansies have a handbags-at-dawn bickering match over who won the new trowel in their guess the date competition, sulkily accusing their fellow experts of not having a gnat’s eyelash of an idea what the fuck they’re wittering on about, and then collectively decide another whacking great hole is required. I heartily agree. Preferably in the middle of their pimple-cratered foreheads.
The team spend three days buggering about in muddy pits, with Robinson trying desperately to ratchet up the dramatic tension in his otherwise achingly tedious hour of feck all happening, by ominously warning every few minutes that they are running out of time – like anyone gives a flying shit.
He does all this while trying to convince himself and the viewer that he is just as clued up about archaeology as the rest of his travelling freak show, who, while mentalists themselves, are well aware that good old Tone knows nothing about nothing, the stinking, whining, failed actor.
Another thing these twats unfailingly do every week, when all they’ve dug up for two days is yet more dirt and the odd dead field mouse, is call in a gang of expert retards with heat-seeking equipment (or some such bull excrement), who never manage to find anything more elderly than a heap of fly tipped builder’s rubble, a chipped cola bottle and a faded Tesco carrier bag, making all their high-tech scientific utensils no more than an appalling waste of money, which is leached back from all of us anyway by scheming advertisers – or independent TVs way of charging us a licence fee like the robbing, lefty, biased BBC.
This whole steaming squirt of dying donkey’s droppings is such a mind-numbing sack of drivel, it makes Family Fortunes look like Mastermind, which is a bunch of rotting tripe for smug, know-it-all dandruff factories anyway. Tony put in a decent performance as Baldric in Blackadder, I’ll give him that, but has now outlived his usefulness and should allow Channel 4 to film him lying in a drunken stupor in the bottom of one of the abandoned trenches, while a Magimix lorry fills it up with quick-drying concrete.
Pompous, self-opinionated little twerp.
The rest of the team should be drowned in a puddle – and I’m sure the many people whose gardens they have fucked up, never to look the same again (with varying patches of multi-coloured grass and uneven bits of ground poking them in the eye every time they look out of their cottage window) would give me their full support in saying that.
Of course they Burk and Hare would! Don’t talk ancient mosaics!
Anyway, how come when I dug up – I mean – IF I dug up someone’s granny, they would call me ghoulish, but if they dig up someone’s great granny, it’s archaeology? And if I then steal granny’s wedding ring, even though it wasn’t worth very much, probably, why does that make me a grave robber and subject to a stretch in prison, but if they swipe great granny’s necklace, it’s an “important find” and legal?
The moral seems to be, if you are going to dig up a corpse and take its stuff without the relatives permission, just make sure it’s more than a fortnight old. The putrid stench will have mostly cleared if they’ve been down there a good while as well.