TV Review: My Super Sweet 16 UK, Viva, Various Times


Whilst everyone was gearing up for some proper telly over the Easter Weekend, watching the new Doctor Who and programmes about Jeezis, I did the usual thing and found myself in the wriggling, festering margins. Notably, I went straight to Viva and watched My Super Sweet 16 UK.

Now, cast your mind back to your 16th birthday. Mine was spent arseholed under a deserted railway bridge drinking cheap booze with mixers on a grimly cold and wet evening. I was invariably wearing a T-Shirt that sported the name of a band I like and I will have no doubt ended up getting off with someone in a hedge on the way home.

Essentially, these clumsy sexual fumbles and underage drinking sessions were the standard for anyone in their late teens, wanting to blot out the unrelenting boredom of life in Britain in the ’90s.

However, My Super Sweet 16 UK would have you believe that this has all changed. The fact is, our teens have gone from slumping, disaffected grunters to full sized Bratz dolls with big cocaine eye balls and squealing delightery over expensive products and giant gazebos.

My Super Sweet 16 doesn’t contain a single groaning plea for things to be more interesting.

This new, shiny MTV teen is straight outta Hollywood, complete with corsage, voluminous clothes, expensive hair and disturbingly white teeth. For my 16th, I was given the gift of £20 and Ian McDonald’s ‘Revolution in the Head’ book – these little bastards get a big top, nudity, swimming pools, karaoke and a brand new sports car.

On top of that, these parties have a guest band on to play them into their ultimately crushing adulthood. In one instance, Kula Shaker appeared to wave their fringes around whilst extolling the virtues of an existence filled with Sanskrit scriptures, meditations and knocked off Hendrix riffs whilst braying oiks all finger each other and puke Apple Sourz down each other’s necks.

That said, in this tremendous hideousity, there’s something quite fun about the show. I found myself reasonably calm and collected at the close of the third programme shown on the bounce – that’s because I’d vented all the hate out of my body by the close of episode one.

It takes roughly 15 minutes to spew all the bile out of your mouth-hole leaving you in an almost zen-like state. The collective anger from those watching it with me became something akin to white noise and, once the abrasion cooled down in my head, I began to find the terrifying noise almost soothing.

Someone should prescribe this show to people with anger problems. It will either sort them out in seconds or they’ll end up going postal. Either way, we’ll have less idiots or a calmer Britain.

My Super Sweet 16 UK isn’t so much a show that shines a light of the preening idiots shat out of the vaginas of wealthy women, but rather, a drying scab on your knee that’s pleasant to pick at.

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