I love the splendidly descriptive phrase Dying On Your Arse, when used to describe the agonies of a performer whose finest efforts at comedy/drama are being greeted in sullen and resentful silence by an unappreciative audience.
Seldom have I seen two arses more effectively died upon than those of James Corden and Matt Horne, as they attempted to co-host the 2009 Brit Awards with Kylie Minogue. These two came across as a pair of unfunny yobs, and such finely honed comedic gems as: "Cheer until you prolapse" or "scream til your nipples bleed" were accorded a tumbleweed reception in the hall.
It's not entirely the fault of Corden and Horne. Acquaintances with better tuned funny bones than me assure me that these are two of our foremost, cutting-edge, talents. For some reason, the producers of the Brits never seem to learn that anyone who tries to do comedy there always dies on their backside. There's a long history of it. The audience at that event consists of a small cluster of youthful pop fans, strategically placed within easy screaming distance of the stage, and tables filled with music industry execs and their guests, swapping gossip and necking industrial quantities of Vino Collapso. The youngsters just want the next band. The drinkers want the next bottle, a good chat and the next band. The bloke on stage doing knob jokes is always an irritating obstruction to the fulfillment of those desires.
Get the comedians off and get a decent presenter on! Or just let that nice Kylie get on with it on her own. She's well up to the task.
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