ATTENTION, mortal earthlings! For more than 20 of your puny human-years, it has been apparent to me, Davi Bel-Phroth, warrior-scion of the Telly-Krit Slaggov galaxy, that many of those who most closely follow the Star Wars movies of the Hollywood chump known as George Look-Ass are as worthless as the shining space-dust which flutters beneath my cosmic rocket-ship.
Confirming this, a quick scan of the Internet will lead you to a fans'-eye website wherein the latest clunking Star Wars opus, The Phantom Menace, is praised by some sad sod - whoops, let's obey tiresome Star Wars convention again and make that Soom-Zad Zod. Anyway, according to Soom-Zad Zod on the planet Ameri Ka-Ka, his viewing of The Phanciful Mince was more emotionally compelling than his attendance at the birth of either of his children.
In the light of this statement, one can only echo the immortal greeting of such Star Wars cyphers as Obi Wan-Kenobi and Qui-Gonn Jinn: Yoo Chuffen-Moron!
Praise be that this message was subtly repeated by BBC Scotland throughout the course of the subversive delight that was Omnibus: The Story Of Star Wars (BBC1, Wednesday).
Subversive? Well, the prog doubtless constituted enough of a pre-release Phantom Menace plug for its director, George Lucas, the originator of Star Wars, who came over as a) an irony-free soul, and b) a lobotomised Rolf Harris lookalike. In addition, every Star Wars dupe would have been pleased - because, let's face it, their liking for outer-space tripe is directly proportional to the vast inner space between their ears.
Meanwhile, non-Star Wars fans - ie, us folk that can read and write and think and all that old-time stuff - will have recognised that Omnibus was a wee hoot.
This was largely due to the scornful frankness of wur ain Ewan McGregor, freshly enlisted into the Stars Wars roster of cardboard cut-outs. In The Phantom Menace, he plays a space-churl who is almost certainly named Nobi-Wan Kahoojie.
''There's not a great deal of soul-searching going on,'' Ewan confessed of the thespian demands imposed by his new role. Mastering a frown is about the limit of it. We then saw Ewan delivering what may be an emblematic line from The Phantom Menace - ''I have a bad feeling about this'' - in a posh, blank English voice which, for its supple expressiveness and emotional range, easily rivalled that of Mr Mahogany himself, Roger Moore. We dig your act, Ewan, you cheeky monkey.
As he viewed the first 1977 instalment of Star Wars, starring Alex Guinness, Ewan pondered the unspeakable nature of its dialogue. ''I got off fairly lightly,'' he said, chuckling. ''Alex Guinness's got some cracking lines . . . I don't know how he does them at all. But he gets away with it.''
There was further hilarity when Ewan recalled the way that director George Lucas seemed either unable or unwilling to tell his actors what to do on-set. But then it got serious: devotees of Star Wars - the horror of them!
''There's a lot of mad people,'' said Ewan. ''I started to smell them. 'May The Force be with you, Ewan.' They'd say this to me seriously. Don't be ridiculous!''
Admirable words of truth, laddie! At the same time I fear such outspokenness may affect Ewan's Hollywood future - especially after George Lucas's summary of computer-animation techniques as they pertain to the all-too-human actor: ''The technology is such that I can just erase him.''
Omnibus then eased first Star Wars hero Harrison Ford into another telling admission about the wooden nature of Lucas's screenwriting: ''I did say to him: 'You can type this shit, but you can't say it'.''
And as if that wasn't enough, we were further tickled by some earnest geek billed as ''a Star Wars historian and real-life Indiana Jones,'' who turned out to be a speccy, gung-ho 12-year-old all-American pillock in a jacket too big for him. This vision wandered goggle-eyed about weird old beehive-shaped Berber dwellings in some desert land he kept calling ''Too Neez-Yuh.''
Tunisia, actually, sunshine. And don't try to kid us that Star Wars was filmed there because it fulfilled some futuristic-retro movie-making philosophy claptrap. It was due to its Third World cheapness, and because there was no need to build weird-looking beehive-shaped sets.
There was further frankness on offer in the first edition of Mark Lamarr Leaving The Twentieth Century (BBC2, Sunday). As well as blasting empty celebrities such as Chris Evans and Tony Blair, the greasily pompadour'd one had a brave go at some rather nastier geezers, the Krays.
Then he finely teetered along a conversational tightrope with someone who'd known Ron'n'Reg quite well, Barbara Windsor, teasing bubbly Babs into fresh insights about the East End criminal milieu of the sixties at the same time as he managed not to offend her.
In addition to biting social satire, the show had some gems of surrealist whimsy courtesy of Mark's co-writer, Sean Lock, the last unsung hero of the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. Sean's absence from this year's effort in Auld Reekie is a major let-down, incidentally.
There was much joy in the devised-comedy which characterises Operation Good Guys (BBC2, Monday), a fly on the wall of the Keystone Cops' locker room documentary spoof. BBC head honchos Alan Yentob, Paul Jackson, and Geoffrey Perkins appeared in it as willing parodies of themselves. That's not the only reason it will go far. Don't miss.
Heaps more laughter was provided by Acetate (BBC2, Monday). This weekly send-up of the self-regarding vacuity of the current British dance-music scene was peopled by a wide range of inarticulate DJ stereotypes, drug-addled geezers in #120 floppy hats snickering to one another about the hipness of minutely graded dance-music variants. Sample dialogue: ''Man, dark-step is so in it's, like, totally out.'' ''Wow, but fluffy-groove, like, is so out it's in.''
Oh, hang on . . . Acetate is meant to be a serious portrait of British dance-music culture. In which case, British dance-music culture is now officially dead.
But let my sauce be with you. This is Davi Bel-Phroth, moon-o-naut, signing off for a few weeks' lie-down before I journey deep into the dark side's darkest side: to the land of Ed-Phest Phringe.
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