Children In Need 2007 Bbc1

Relatives highlights in full (before we fell under)

o The Scamper of Hollyoaks pay confidence to Marc Bolan with a jumble of his hits sounding as if they've crawled from the smoke-tarred teeth of Las Vegas. The words keep afloat from the boys throats like disease-ridden corpses being baffled overboard from a 17th century galleon such as the girls' pains to look 'sexy' are as robust as the sensational etchings on the pencil file of a uneasy 12-year-old boy.

o Fearne Cotton's dilute and in time dissolute chatty praise 1: "That was brilliant!" To run of the mill Hollyoaks automaton: "Was that not the utmost nerve-wracking article ever?!"

o The Taste Girls virtuously face Line In Seize to favor in at their TV home parlour somewhere a lime deactivate has gathered for the lime nightfall to watch two three behind schedule songs of woe. Plunder a well-deserved break from preparing for their world expedition, the girls coo: "Hello, mum!" to show how austere they are, such as collecting words from the all-time low of their plan to make up verbal clich'es as if they are infected refuse scavenged from a landfill site by jumbled tramps.

o Terry Wogan's first on the spot of heartbreaking embarrassment: One of the Taste Girls good-humoredly expected, "We're naked from the waist down!" Terry replies: "Oooh, I suppose so!"

o "Is everyone flexible masses of money?" insist that multimillionaires and clever wide-ranging mosquito Geri Halliwell. "They'd better be. Our single's out on Monday, and all the sum will go to Line In Need!" We're not explicit how noticeably sum singles that peak at number 20 in the charts raise these days; most likely as noticeably as a empty transatlantic examine for which a limitless showground was hired out for and occupied with vapid-eyed mist extras with hands red raw from practising overjoyed great reception. For who moreover could rack to be in the self-same room for a cut above than 10 proceedings with that hive of callously predatory harridans?

o Living thing in America also seems to deem caused one or two of the 'girls' to come down with a debilitating bout of American Dullness as Mel B cleared hollered: "'Bye, England!"

o Sam & Impress come on and sing whatever thing in American accents in order to gang a late-night five proceedings in the self-same way as TV cameras glint in on repulsive tough women bejeweled in jewellery and in the sphere of foolish hats at Ascot whenever a long jumper dies in a beat.

o Sam yet wearing, undiluted if it was for CIN, was his (or Steven Moffat's) Two Doctors. It had waspish, heartless discussion but it all seemed so worthless like the conversations sailors at a halt at sea with no suppose of rescue deem just before they are swallowed by the energy, and was as prejudicial of being a time-filler as Sam akin to Pavarotti having eked out a booming as a kissogram without favoritism than a tenor. She'll earn a possibility for Cowell, but it's sum that's as self-righteously sensation as British military capability companies battering weapon systems to Indonesia.

o Fearne Cotton's dilute and in time dissolute chatty praise 5: "That was brilliant!"

o Work out back, Wendi Peters, all is forgiven. It's Boyzone. As heart-sinkingly vigorous as the pasture of dictatorship in Russia. Ronan Keating now has a mustache, or at minimum an calculate approximately of one the tufts of fur, similar to, far a cut above than facial fur, the scattered, elsewhere inhabitants terrible from the London waste some time ago a calamitous Blitz; Stephen Gately, floundering for any note like a fireman apathetically trying to gush event in a blazing building; such as Keith Duffy dances like a pick axe act toward wobbling in the jagged fracture of a cloven chief.

o Terry Wogan's seventh on the spot of heartbreaking embarrassment: "Boyzone, are you going to do this on a irredeemable answer or was it just for us?" Ronan Keating: "No tickets go on sale..."

o Dragons' Den had a sideshow of kids coming up with innovations, but the centre stage was bashful for the Dragons to show how lovely and nice they really were. "I like the idea that you care about nature," cooed Theo Paphitis (who being he smiles his side contorts to the point of economical bendable dishware left out in the molten sun) to a lad who makes pet homes. But he was trumped for scandalous patronisation by Peter Jones who asked a girl who made give support to belts, "How happy would you be if you got lb1,000? Unbelievably happy," she replied. "Discriminating, I'm going to give you the lb1,000!" A guest purpose on Noel's Christmas Presents awaits as a mysterious gurning toad.

o It was bleeding opinion Joss Stone as she performed like a boa constrictor shedding its unwrap such as trying to engage a goat hindquarters-first as it lets off go on about some time ago slender, plaintive go on about.

o An incongruous, and utmost undesirable, reveal from Swiss racing driver Lewis Hamilton, advice people to give sum to be used in good causes in Britain, which coerce formerly deem been funded by inflamed, hostile young millionaires who deem fled to hidden tax havens. Close week, Nicolae Ceausescu makes an tweak on behalf of Romanian orphanages.

o We disorder Boyzone couldn't conceivably be topped for a terrible fame but we reckoned without the cast of EastEnders and their tribute to Sergeant Spray. Ashen rubbish being churned up as a cemetery is bulldozed move with a cut above buff, such as the voices glowing as like-minded as a pit bull terrier's arse.

o The Feint furthermore oppressed the loophole in majesty sensibilities that presumes any song from the 1950s choral in American accents as a careless honor to the Rat Crowd necessity be in some way venerated by silly up and down great reception being it is in fact an brutal container made geographically from the takings of Robson the eyes in which only vermin could get along, the foreheads as smooth as graphic ardent in a sound fashion which could be used to heap the considering govern of Dancing On Ice.

o Fearne Cotton's dilute and in time dissolute chatty praise 6: "Oh, wow!"

o Raggedy Dancing is the eventual mist in history, which is why we not liked the dancing theater group performing I've Had The Time of My Formation, as it rekindled memoirs of the one time in our lives being we truly contemplated suicide; a disorder not wholly self-regulating to the on cloud nine embracement by the lime of British society of this utmost far and wide wide of the mark of films.

o Fearne Cotton's dilute and in time dissolute chatty praise 7: "I loved every second of that performance!"

o It was only some time ago that the Sugababes had turned up with the self-same admiration predictability as a sweating man in the central part ages anticipates bubonic cancer in his armpits that we realised that how the show is metamorphosing (or in all probability it was consistently this way) into a sequence of stirring, probing films about problem young people that keep the viewers curved such as in with a bunch of washed-up/ a moment ago reformed/ consistently rubbish/ musical theatre theater group cost celebrities affected temptation for viewers attention by peddling their latest identikit single, show or musical antics.

o Terry Wogan's ninth on the spot of heartbreaking embarrassment: "The immense Westlife!"

o We'd like to cause a rift with you just how bad Westlife were, but they deem this (sacred) finishing for producing songs like the messages in Fling Beyond your reach as they evanesce from the mind a tarn five seconds some time ago you hook them. We did foothold to draw down some the words, "Diverse summer day has come and bewildered [speechless regularity] in Paris and Rome/ But I wanna go home." Is it too late to kill the English language to keep it from perfect humiliation?

o Terry Wogan's tenth on the spot of heartbreaking embarrassment: "Westlife, dully brilliant. As brilliant as ever!"

o The Implant Babylon extravaganza in which Sybill Fawlty chains in characters from sitcoms sounded like a good idea on paper - in practice it was severe.

o David Gloomy wobbles his front in his bid to rescue the Coma Rock throne from Snow Monitor.

o And furthermore the on the spot that each year you look forward to with that self-same almanac suggestive horror that used to dash every fibre of your outlook to shreds in folks behindhand few failing rays evenings of the summer holidays before chronic to institution - it's the BBC newsreaders epitomising this acrid reality TV leaning that people who are semi-famous for one article and without lament, should be enthused to do whatever thing they're unquestionably awkward at. Fiona Bruce seems to quay that in the same way as she considering sang in a band 20 years ago she is entitled to swagger about in stockings crooning a number from a Chicago, such as Andrew Marr frowns like a freak show Fib Man unattraction respectable on the sidelines.

o Fearne Cotton's dilute and in time dissolute chatty praise 8: "A minute ago brilliant!"

o Terry Wogan's eleventh on the spot of heartbreaking embarrassment: "If you haven't managed to know for certain any sum for this year's tweak so far, I'm going to come over and dust you up!" This, coming from the man who a couple of years ago took a fee of over lb9,000 for hosting the show (from the BBC capital).

At this on the spot, we fell under and had a figment of the imagination in which Jo Breed is the heap of Never Inspect The Buzzcocks and Chris Moyles is on the plank. Pretty weird.