On Swedish TV these days, you can experience what must count as the most bizarre TV craze of all time.
OK, I guess the whole “Survival” thing was weird enough—and its Swedish version, called “Robinson”, a veritable C-list celebrity production line. Then we had the whole docusoap thing, stumbling hopefully to its final resting place any time soon. Not to mention “På Spåret,” a Swedish “game show” where you show some speeded-up video footage taken from a train and make the guests guess which train it is. Edge-of-the-seat suff…
But now we have the ultimate TV timewaster – farmer dating! Yes, you too can have a farmer of your very own, and move to a smelly part of the country you did not know existed and sleep beside a man who smells like animal crap for the rest of your days.
The show goes like this—they introduce the beefy farmers in question and wait a few weeks for the letters from the desperate idiot babes to roll in. Then they pick out a harem for each man of the land, and have a mini “bachelor” situation for each of them, complete with voting out and all the rest of it.
And oh-my-God, you cannot imagine the level of eye-scratching and back-biting involved in getting a farmer to like you. The papers are stuffed with it every day:
“Idiot babe 2 and smelly farmer 5 get it on behind barn 12. Shock! Farmer votes out wrong woman! Farmer babe sad because not picked! Farmer picks pig instead of babe! Farmer discovers he has penis!”
Jesus…If these women really want to get it on with a farmer then why don’t they head off to whatever countryside shit-hole that takes their fancy and find the closest pub. And within the space of 10 minutes, there you go—instant farmer! In fact, I could name a half-dozen pubs in Stockholm where they could find a farmer in less time that it takes to bull a cow.
My mother, you see, was a farmer’s wife before retiring, and fun it isn’t. It is hard—12 hours a day, every fucking day of the year, rain, sleet, snow or meteor impact. I don’t think the simpering babes on “Farmer wants a wife” have really thought this through, and when the TV cameras leave and a few of them have been chained to the beefy idiot of their desire, then the real fun will begin. They will grow old and haggard, married to a pleasant yet dim dude who wears his wellies in to dinner. They will get at most one holiday a year and suckle a brood of red-faced children who will get teased at school because they have shit under their fingernails and smell like wee.
But of course it isn’t the farmers these ladies are after, it is getting themselves on TV. And that’s good—we were just starting to run out of C-list celebrities, with the decline of the docu-soap. So pull up a chair ladies, scrape the shit off your clumpy boots and sit your fat arses down—there’s plenty room for a few more vacant-headed, self-obsessed losers.
/ paddy (ex-farmer who knows what he is talking about!)