Park'd

I learnt about supply and demand by playing Roller Coaster Tycoon. When the rain started and pixelated precipitation set about turning Dan's Fun Land into a rainforest, I would strike. 

One umbrella, was $2, now $20.

The queues would grow at various stalls and I watch my cash piles grow and grow. And who can blame me? How else was I going to finance a Wild West-themed log flume?

I was reminded of that Martin Shkreli-meets-Walt Disney mindset today when I read a garage in Chelsea had sold for £360,000, which given the size of just 146 sq ft makes it a far costlier investment than the current record holder which stands at £550,000 for a 569 sq ft plot when purchased back in 2014. 

Let's get the basis arguments out of the way. An average property goes for about £2.4m in the leafy district of West London so the mindset of 'well, it's small change in the grand scheme of things!' is perfectly valid. And yes, a place to park is, literally speaking, at a premium, so the opportunity to snap up an in-demand amenity is likely to spark multiple bidders. 

Now to the fun part. 

THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY GRAND FOR A FUCKING GARAGE?!

It's quite difficult as well to describe it as a garage. It's more of an accidental smattering of bricks with a giant black door bolted to the front. Down an alley so narrow, you'd have a a reasonably tricky time navigating your own face down it. 

A Place in the Sun or The Wire?

Then there's actually getting to it. Unfortunately access via large vehicle is not one of the garage's main traits. It's not even a trait at all. I mean you might get a remote control Lightning McQueen toy slotted in, and then maybe at a push, a Smart Two Convertible. But neither of these cars scream 'look at me with my new garage which cost the same as paying Wayne Rooney for 10 days so you could demand he throw himself off the nearest steep edge'. 

Your average Russian oligarch, Middle Eastern Sheikh or extra on Made in Chelsea is going to be piloting a small amphibious warship with the turning circle of the moon. The likelihood of squeezing it into a space that is proportionally the size of a badger's arsehole is fairly unlikely. 

"It's the chauffeur's job!" I hear you scream in unison. I mean, the poor soul tasked with that on day one of the job. What other hellish demands would this tyrannical garage-owner set out? 'Park the car, sweep the entrance hall, then go and flog this Iberian ham in the streets of Islamabad at a 2.5x markup.'

Those tasked with selling the garage had expected it to fetch somewhere around £180,000. Without knowing someone was going to stump up double that, you'd have called the estate agents names a lot worse than you'd usually do. You'd have sat there thinking, the cheek of these upstart yuppies who fund an evening of cocktails and cocaine at Boujis by flogging a studio flat vaguely near the DLR to some Ukrainian investor, to then demand more than the fourth-best prize on Who Wants to Be A Millionaire for a fucking undercover car parking space?

Then a couple of bidders went mad and here we are, in a society where we're accepting £360,000 for a space most homeowners would use to dispose of old gym equipment, store Christmas decorations or plot to dispatch their mother-in-law in. 

There will be Buzzfeed articles in the next few days lamenting how you can buy a five-bedroom palace with tennis courts on the outskirts of Blackburn for the same money. But we're missing the point. We shouldn't be comparing this frivolous exercise of dick-measuring through lavish expenditure to other property. We should be comparing this to other things we can buy which add similar value to our lives. 

Like shelving. What other shelving solution can we buy for £360,000? None. Make a list out of that, Buzzfeed. 

But such is the mad world of London property, it serves no purpose trying to come to terms with outlandish stories like this. Just bury yourself in a video game and ruin the poor people's lives on there instead. 

Jumpin' Jack Crash

I guess there's a reason why humans evolved the way they did from dynasty to dynasty. Every point in the history of the Homosapien has been coloured with public violence. Crowds sat with peers, baying for blood as casually as my nan sits down to watch Emmerdale. 

Amphitheatres, colosseums, the patch of grass outside Casino Rooms nightclub in Gillingham, Kent; the thrill of watching another human in distress and pain is engrained in the human race. Also explains why the Mail Online is the most popular 'news' website on the planet. 

It's something that has become all too sanitised in the direct descendants of the gladiator battles we used to lap up with glee; reality TV. The sword has been replaced by parents evening-levels of criticism from Rita Ora; a public execution has become a farewell slow dance like we're all attendees at Mexico's soppiest quinceañera; and instead of locking thieves in stocks and pelting them with seeded fruit, those who incur the wrath of the vocal minority tend to receive illiterate death threats from the kind of individual who can be mentally swayed by a light breeze. 

Then one Sunday, Davina McCall reappeared on my telly. Dressed like an over stuffed bean bag and seemingly powered by a portable nuclear reactor, she stood in the only chalet bar on the planet seemingly run by O'Neills and introduced series 2 of The Jump. 

Or as it shall now be known,The Hunger Games: Catching Flying Celebrity Corpses. 

Davina just informing Arg the next round involves fighting a snow leopard 

You see, there is simply no other programme where a group of celebrities seem closer to the a Grim Reaper. We've nearly killed Olympic Sprinters, Olympic Swimmers, Olympic Gymnasts. I'm still not sure how James Argent has remained unscathed; a man who has the aerodynamic properties of a balloon filled with bricks. 

The basic premise is each week, the celebrities compete against each other in a different winter sport, taking inspiration from actual Winter Olympic events but seemingly also taking inspiration from some of the more difficult levels in Crash Bandicoot 3. Those who are slowest/last/worst then have to take on a variety of ski jumps in order to remain in the competition.

This is where it starts getting a little morbid. The individuals who have demonstrated they cannot do 'sport' or 'activities' as well as some of the other contestants say, are the ones Channel 4 producers strap to a set of skis and ask to go defy gravity without dying. The worst contestants. 

It's the equivalent of the worst two singers on the X Factor travelling to Damascus in order to instigate a ceasefire by singing a note-perfect and heart-wrenching rendition of the Syrian national anthem.  

Well maybe not, I've no idea what features have been added in the international exports of these shows. 

Winter sports are dangerous. Asking Brian McFadden, the Keith Moon of Christian vocal group Westlife to lay flat on a try and travel 95kmh down an Olympic skeleton track before he's even grasped all 26 letters of the alphabet is just a bit mean. 

Or is it? Is this actually, the kind of blood sport Sunday evening teatime telly has been crying out for?

Viewers have been calling in their droves to complain someone who once had a top 40 hit before a drug-fuelled meltdown in Ayia Napa is going to end up impaled on something. It seems a fitting end to careers largely without a point.  

I for one am delighted. For too long those who's previous star turn was on page 16 of the Daily Star have been cashing in on reality TV, making an obscene amount of money to be a little bit more bubbly and relatable than normal. Too long have social gargoyles like Jemma Collins been able to swan onto the television, play the fat card and a spunky Essex accent and waltz off into the distance unscathed and thousands of pounds richer. 

Shows like The Jump, and previously Splash, are adding an element of risk to proceedings. Now those who's careers need a kickstart or ailing individuals once in the private eye but now needing to finance a new conservatory have something to write in the 'cons' section when weighing up whether to appear on anything sponsored by tampon brands or washing powder. 

Channel 4 are said to be reviewing their safety procedures after the near culling of Britain's Z-List. The moment they start putting safety nets onto the slopes is the moment I turn off. If I'm going to devote an hour of my time watching Sarah Harding confuse snow with her usual white powder of choice, there better damn well be something in it for me. 

Because back in times of old before televisions, ski slopes and the discovery of the Davina McCall species, they wouldn't have stood for anything less than participants risking life and limb for a pay check. And these guys were well-respected warriors, not someone who's spent so much time in Eastenders they can't grasp why Ian Beale isn't at the top of the Sunday Times Rich List every year. 

So there we have it. The Jump. A modern day colosseum for the modern day fame hunter. Full circle.