'Please Sir, Can I Have Samoa?'

Eastenders, BBC1, Monday
Rugby World Cup, ITV1, Saturday
Ten O'Clock News, BBC1, Saturday

I'm back! Admittedly wondering just what evil I've done in a previous life to be suffering so much in this one – maybe I was the person who first introduced Adolf Hitler to the theory of eugenics, or the ape millions of years ago from whom Paris Hilton is descended – but taking some comfort from the fact that even though I'm chained to a desk again, I can at least put my happy little rants into print once more.

Naturally I've been goggleboxing regularly since leaving these shores, at least as much as working evening bar shifts will allow, and so I have plenty to say in my first column back. I am also single once more (hi David T), so can watch what I want without having to fight for the remote control. Class!

Kicking off with not a rant but extreme happiness from two weeks ago as annoying moo Chelsea and wimpy idiot Deano got sent dahn in Eastenders (BBC1, Monday). Deano has got on my, em, nerves, since arriving in the Square an interminable amount of time ago – as stepmum Denise said to him a few weeks back, "If you were any more stupid you'd have to be watered" – but it is Chelsea who really takes the custard cream in the "oh my god you're making my ears bleed" category of annoyance.

Not only is her character the most vacuous, annoying and dislikeable in the programme – yes, even more so than Ian Beale – but the actor herself is literallythe most annoying person I have ever seen in all my years of goggleboxing history. She's even worse than Kasey Ainsworth as Little Mo a few years back, and believe me, that is truly saying something.

Tiana Benjamin as Chelsea seems to think that acting is spitting out your  lines through gritted teeth, swishing your hair about (which evil Sean Slater cut off hee hee), and having the type of accent that grates on your fillings. So the fact that the character got sent dahn two weeks ago had me at  the level of happiness usually only experienced at 3am on an average Saturday morning. Not because I, erm, think the soaps are real or anything, but because it means I don't have to hear Chelsea's annoying whine (or see Deano's hamster-like bake) for the next six months. Yay! 

(And I've just had an even bigger laugh as I checked out Chelsea/Tiana  on Wikipedia as part of my intrepid research techniques. "Chelsea Fox," the profile says. "First appearance: 5 May 2006. Status: single. Home: prison." Mwahahaha!)

Eastenders bosses take note – if there are ANY, or even any hints of any future storylines involving a Chelsea and Deano thrilling prison break, I will  personally firebomb the set. Yes, even if that means I never get to watch Eastenders again.

I said a Bad Word on Saturday night. Now as anyone who knows me can  testify, I do have what can be termed as a potty mouth at the best of  times. But Saturday night saw a new level of badness as I watched the  England/France semi-final of the rugby world cup.

I don't particularly like rugby, but, as I have waxed forth on this page  before, Saturday night TV is an insult to viewers and so if I'm staying in because I'm skint I'm forced to watch any old rubbish to try and fend off the walls of the flat creeping in on me.

Rugby is also good for the perve factor, and hey, who's going to miss the opportunity of England getting beaten at something, even if it's tiddlywinks.

Except they didn't, and hence the Bad Word. Now, before I get accused of blatant sectarianism, can I just point out that my beef is not England winning at any sporting event, but the way the match commentators and mee-ja get on, assuming that there is nothing better anyone watching would like than for England to assume world domination. In everything. (Sorry boys, that ship has sailed.)

My colleague on the sports desk even informed me that even the Cadbury's ad – the one with the gorilla playing the drums (who looks like my colleague on the sports desk) – was digitally altered to show a St George's Cross and the trumpeting message "Come on lads". Because everyone who eats chocolate, or likes music, or breathes, wants England to win, obviously.

The match itself was particularly bad. At 8-9 down with seven or eight minutes to go, England got a penalty that took them to an 11-9 lead. And the commentators were – well, as Mr Editor keeps sternly telling me, this is a family newspaper, so I'll try and keep it clean – let's just say the commentators' reaction wouldn't have sounded out of place in what I shall euphemistically term an "adult" film. Nuff said.

It got worse when that sod Jonny Wilkinson got a drop goal (or whatever it's bloody well called) a few minutes later, putting the match beyond France's reach and making me hope that the fecking commentators might at least have a heart attack in their frantic excitement.

"The lights are out in Paris tonight!" one of them screamed. "In fact, the lights are white in Paris tonight! England, ONCE AGAIN, are in the final of the rugby world cup!"

This is when I said the Bad Word. The C-word. The one that card-carryin feminists are not supposed to say. "Bunch of smug *****," I shouted at the TV. And again when I switched over to the Ten O'Clock "News" on BBC1 to find it was the lead item. But your honour, I was provoked. 

Still though. There is some hope. The other semi-final was won by Sooth Iffrica, who hammered England 36-0 in the opening rounds. Please, rugby gods. Make it happen in the final.