Posted by Ali Gray
at 23:30 on 17 Aug 2016
It's quite rare for me to embark on a televisual adventure without at least several months of prep: five-star reviews, extensive marketing campaigns, assurances that the hours of my life I'll inevitably lose to this programme will totally be worth it. But sometimes I like to be surprised. So, with no other recommendation than the accolade "the best show with the worst title" (copyright some rando on Twitter), I started watching Crazy Ex-Girlfriend on Netflix last week. 18 glorious episodes later, I am here to give you your five-star review, your marketing campaign and your assurance that the hours of your life you'll lose to this programme will totally be worth it. Fittingly for a show about obsessive behaviour in relationships, I am late-night-phone-calls, million-text-Monday, snot-streaming-down-face-outside-bedroom-window OBSESSED with this show.
Jeremy Corbyn's claim not to know who Ant and Dec are has been exposed as bollocks.
There's a dog in this one. The dog is called Maxine. Who is this dog? Where is she going? Has she ever learned to love?
It's been about nine months since I last saw an episode of Mr Robot, and now I remember I rarely have a bloody clue what's going on. Is he his own dad? Is his dog real? Why would there be a fully-functioning popcorn machine still in an abandoned amusement arcade? Oh God there are 12 of these things.
We've had people claiming to have been kidnapped. We've had double-reverse catfishes. We've had lesbian smackdowns. We've even had ghosts. Where oh where can Catfish go from here?
Social media manager of DoorsWorld in Winchester Jez Hinds was today reported to be off sick on the one day he had a trending topic to jump on to.
"There are greater things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt in your philosophy." Shakespeare, eh. He knew what was up. Tonight on a Very Special Catfish, Nev and Max are on the trail of a psychic sending messages to a young girl from her dead father, because busting makes them feel good.
If Eastenders were realistic, there'd be no Peggy Mitchells. Hers is a London where a pub landlady can return after six years and be greeted warmly in the street by tens of people still living there, all bound together by family ties and regular community events, rather than vaguely recognising each other as the person they used to be on the same daily train commute with and avoiding eye contact. But that's not the point.
Sadly there are no warring lesbians in this week's catch-up, but there is a woman called Tomorrow, and Nev and Max try to determine someone's identity from sonogram pictures. They're that good.
In this week's Catfish: a lesbian love triangle smackdown and maybe even a sex tape (*watches Google rankings improve*)