Reality Television Will Not Stop Until James ‘Arg’ Argent Is Killed In Glorious HD

Channel 4's The Jump has never really appealed to me before as a televisual prospect, because, what: I want to watch Chloe Madeley ski a little while Davina McCall does her young-at-heart-auntie-really-wants-to-get-this-wake-popping-because-that's-what-he-would-have-wanted bit on the sidelines? No, no thank you, thank you but not at all. But then I found out it was responsible for this seven little seconds of perfection, video-as-art, the closest this generation will get to a Sistine Chapel – James 'Arg' Argent, sliding on his arse onto a gigantic distant airbed – and now I'm rethinking my stance:

First three seconds are classic latent Arg: hands firmly on his knees to fend off the terror of what's to come; bedazzled 'A' emblazoned on his leotard that, in the face of the cold prospect of jumping off a 20ft ski slope, looks so foolish, so hubristic; the inscrutable face of focus, repeating the mantras of his ski instructors – 'bum out, Arg, knees pliant' – on a loop inside his head. And then, somewhere indistinct between the third and fourth seconds, something inexplicable happens inside James 'Arg' Argent's body: his muscles go liquid and contort inside his skin, machinations unknown cause him to ease over backwards, his mind does not allow him to stop, and then, emotionlessly, silently, James 'Arg' Argent slides on his arse and off into the abyss, ski tips meeting for one perfect moment as he arcs towards the ground. Again:

"Oh no," Davina McCall says. "Oh no. Up, and: backwards! Backwards!" And Arg hits the pillow like a brick thrown in the sea.

The Jump injury list, as of press date (February 8, 2k16): Rebecca Adlington, peak condition former Olympic swimmer: dislocated shoulder; Linford Christie, peak condition former Olympic lunchbox ferrier: pulled hamstring; Beth Tweddle, peak condition former Olympic gymnast: broken back; Tina Hobley, Holby City actress: twice-broken and dislocated elbow; Sid Owen off of EastEnders: unidentified but agonising thigh injury. Somehow, Argent survives. Somehow, Argent lives on.

In a way, The Jump is the natural conclusion for our reality TV bloodlust, the first tentative steps towards a dystopian end game: shapeless low-level celebrities and peak condition former athletes, gaunt and penniless on the thin gruel of post-Olympic non-sporting life, race each other to see who can get most brutally hurt on live TV. Based on the current injury list, there is an approximate 25% chance that Jump contestants will get badly hurt: a 1 in 14 probability that they will need surgery to fuse and repair their damaged spines. And yet they cue up to jump artlessly off a ski slope on primetime Channel 4. They cheerfully offer their bound and broken limbs to Davina McCall in the interstitial ski lodge and say: I'm gutted I can't compete. All the pre-ad roll oompa bands and Sarah Harding laughing at a hot chocolate are mere distraction: we are truly here to see Tamara Beckwith burn her face off going nose-first down a ski cross route; we're here to see James 'Arg' Argent dislocate all of his limbs at once, splayed like a starfish in one perfect gravity-free moment mid-air, slumping to the ground like an octopus tossed loosely out of the sea.

When celebrities agree to compete on The Jump they are essentially saying: my career is at a point where I must hurt myself for money.

Arg is an interesting prospect, as a human and as a celebrity. In real life, up close, he's more handsome than you might expect: perfectly baked tan, thick shiny hair, strong white teeth, like a thoroughbred horse who laughs at fart jokes. In the Acknowledgements section of his autobiography, he thanks the Chicken Cottage, South Woodford, just behind his nan. Arg. A name that's not a name, a sound better burped than spoken. Arg. In his book, which I have read cover-to-cover, he details in harrowing detail a moment when Gemma Collins and him did some hand stuff at a fat camp. Arg. In her book, there is no corresponding chapter. Arg. The pinnacle of the reality TV punching bag, giggling maniacally like the kid at the back of the maths class who is only in top set thanks to a clerical error. Arg. He's done The Spa, a show about ham-fisted celebrities learning to massage the general public; he's done Sugar Free Farm, a show where celebrities go to a farm and don't eat sugar; he's done TOWIE, first as the Hardy to Mark Wright's 'awlright gels?' Laurel, then as some sort of pathological wearer of ill-fitting jumpers, staring at his feet while his girlfriend cries loudly at him or laughing at the side of a pool in Marbella with Diags. Arg. And now, so surely down the reality TV path is he, The Jump: throwing himself to near death off the top of a ski slope, arse on the snow, torso dragging helplessly behind his flailing feet, all for our amusement. The clown prince of ITV2. The most nailed-on Jacamo spokesmodel since Freddie Flintoff. Again:

Ask yourself a question: do you want to watch Arg die? This is where we are heading. Because when he flailed arse-first out of The Jump last night, as his body crushed into the inflatable safety-bed below, he basically said: what is the next reality endeavour for me. His arms clawed at the polythene saving him from death and thought: I could do I'm A Celeb, I suppose. But if ITV2 come up with a format where Arg has to competitively bungee jump against Rustie Lee? Arg is a maybe. Channel 4 come up with an offer to do a docuseries where six celebs get hooked on heroin, Reggie Yates to do the heartfelt flophouse interviews in front of a live studio audience? Arg just needs the say-so from Freemantle, but it looks like it's a yes. And so to a doomed future: James 'Arg' Argent, choking to death on 60 hotdog sausages, trying to break a Guinness speed-eating record in front of Ant and Dec. Is this what you want? Is this what you want, you blood-crazed lunatics? Do you want Arg to die? We are, all of us, complicit in James 'Arg' Argent's inevitable death. His failure on The Jump was just one shaky, inelegant step towards infinite blackness. Only then will we be happy again.

@joelgolby

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