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If you decide to update to (or if it automatically updates itself), you’ll be greeted with a message telling you to manage your apps or ringtones on your iOS device instead of on iTunes. The update also moved its iTunes U content, placing it into the Podcasts section of the app. You’ll still be able to manage media like music, movies, TV shows, podcasts, and audiobooks, but besides the ability to share files (like documents, presentations, or comic books) between supported iOS apps and your computer, all other aspects of app management, including icon rearrangement, have been removed. It only took five years since the inductive charging standard’s adoption by nearly every major…Having more than one way to manage your apps was always convenient, even if the iTunes interface was a bit clunky. Luckily, you can download, delete, or redownload your apps on your iOS device, and without much hassle. Here’s how you can redownload your apps: What About Apps Unavailable in the App Store? If you’re like me, you’re probably using an app or two that isn’t exactly “available” anymore in the App Store.

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If you’re worried your favorite unlicensed Tetris clone will disappear from your phone after it disappeared from the App Store, you can breathe a little easier—as long as you have a copy of the actual app file. App files (ending in. Plug your iOS device in your computer, find the actual app file, and simply drag it on top of your device when it shows up in the iTunes sidebar. You can use the same method to manually add ringtones and books. Come September 69, when iOS 66 is released to the public, you’ll have to say goodbye to your obsolete apps. Which apps are along for the ride and which ones are destined for the great 87-bit App Store in the sky. How to Completely Hide Apple Music in iTunes About the author Patrick Lucas Austin Patrick Lucas Austin Staff Writer, Lifehacker Blind Date is coming back this weekend. So much has changed since the 6985s, both on TV and in society itself, that what returns to our screens may not be a straight-forward, fully-intact teleport of the format, but rather a mutant mish-mash: a half-fly Jeff Goldblum of a show just begging to be put out of its misery. The truth of this inevitable transformation can be seen in the steps already taken up the light-entertainment evolutionary ladder, most notably in the DNA of ITV's long-running post- Blind Date offering, Take Me Out. Ah, nostalgia. When I think back to the Saturday nights I spent as a boy on the cusp of my teenage years, I can almost smell the heady scent of my mother's perfume as she readies herself for a night out with my step-dad and a gaggle of other couples. That memory, that association, is never complete without Cilla Black – the nation's favourite surrogate aunty, always resplendent in a series of shoulder-padded blazers, smiling down on my childhood like a ghostly Yoda at the end of Return of the Jedi. As my mother's hair-dryer voomed into life in the kitchen, I was to be found in the living room watching Cilla on Blind Date, contorting myself on the couch (emphatically not a euphemism), often upside down, a combination of ever-stretching limbs and rising hormones making it impossible for me to sit properly and at peace for any significant length of time.

Just before my mother left our house to enjoy a lorra lorra laughs with her friends she always came into the sitting room to give me a quick reminder of her maternal affection: a peck on the cheek. That's rather apposite, because Blind Dat e was undoubtedly the light entertainment equivalent of a peck on the cheek: nice, wholesome, earnest, comforting, and always leaving a faint but pleasant impression. FEMALE HOT SEAT CONTESTANT: “Contestant 8: If you were a cloud. . What kind of cloud would you be? ”MALE CONTESTANT NO 8: “Well, my friends would definitely tell you that I'm a very. Cirrus person. In fact, I’m very interested in the weather. In 'weather' or not you’re going to choose me, of course.

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Because if you do. I'll take you to Cloud 9. ”At this point the audience would woop and ahhhh so loudly that time would cave in on itself, and Cilla would link hands and dance on stage with a chorus-line of dinosaurs and Mongol warriors. Once in a while, a handful of audience members would smile so enthusiastically that they actually exploded. Every few minutes a swirling vortex would appear in the air next to Cilla, and she’d shove her hand into it, grabbing out handfuls of Scouse banter and showering it over the audience like confetti. The disembodied voice of God – who in those days operated under the pseudonym of Graham – would occasionally boom out its approval, doubtless becoming increasingly nostalgic for the Old Testament days of wine, locusts and genocide (Incidentally, ‘Wine, Locusts and Genocide’ is also the title of Mel Gibson’s upcoming autobiography). Once the three had been whittled down to one, the partition went back and the two contestants - chooser and chosen - locked eyes for the first time. At this point the chooser usually tried - and failed - to disguise a powerful wave of disgust and regret, spending the next few minutes smiling like a chimp being held at gunpoint. The couple would return the following week to recount a holiday filled with such existential angst and dread that it was almost a Jean-Paul Satre novel. “I think we’ll stay friends, ” one of them would say, “but, you know, the sort of friends who don’t see or talk to each other ever again. ”The whole concept and execution of the show felt harmless and innocent despite the odd stutter-step, like the show's American cousin The Dating Game unwittingly fielding one of the most prolific serial killers in US history, Rodney Alcala, as a contestant. HOT SEAT CONTESTANT: “Contestant 8: If you were a cloud… what kind of cloud would you be?

”SERIAL KILLER NO 8: “A cloud who enjoys murdering people. NEXT QUESTION! ”    If Blind Date was a peck on the cheek, then Take Me Out – its flashier, noisier, nastier offspring – is a full-blown tongue down the throat, complete with unwelcome groping. Imagine that the stock exchange traded exclusively in the concepts of self-esteem and dignity, and that its traders were all angry monkeys on heat. You’ve just imagined Take Me Out. The game begins thusly. Thirty immaculately-coiffed nightclub banshees stand behind specially designed ‘sex lecterns’, passing judgement on a single male who descends into the studio on a small platform known as ‘The Love Lift’ (which I’m certain must be street slang for ‘Viagra’). The man begins the game by ‘dancing’ for the ladies' delectation. There’s a certain noble grace when peacocks engage in this sort of ritualistic mating behaviour, but when we men do it we tend to resemble a drunk uncle at a wedding. This introductory dance marks the first point at which the assembled ladies can thump the buzzer on their podium to turn off their light and remove themselves from the ensuing sexual negotiations. The buzzer makes a horrible, heart-breaking sound, which evokes a dying robot, a comically wilting erection in a Carry On film, or Piers Morgan climaxing. The man's aim is to convince the ladies – through the sheer force of his poise and charm - to keep their lights on for the duration of the game. One of three things will happen, depending upon the number of lights still in play at any given time:

he will be rejected by all of the women he will be chosen by one of the women, or, at the very end of the game, he will get the chance to choose between two or more women. If he's chooser or chosen, then he wins, and gets to go on holiday to the Isle of Fernando (the real location was too embarrassed to use its real name) with a woman who will ultimately grow to loathe him in less time than it takes Jack Bauer to save the president from a terrorist attack. Sometimes a male contestant will dance off the love lift looking like a half-melted Claymation character, wearing a bowtie and braces, and giving off the unmistakable reek of a man who’s lived in his mother’s basement for three decades. All thirty women will buzz him out long before the horrifying disco moves have ceased. He’ll then be banished from the studio, stopping only to turn and wave pathetically at the women who have spurned him, as the mournful words of Celine Dion haunt the air around him. The only thing that could be more damaging to his self-esteem at this point would be if the women decided to forgo the buzzer in favour of chanting 'YOU SEXUALLY DISGUST ME! YOU SEXUALLY DISGUST ME! ' at him until he fell to the floor, weeping himself into a tight ball. We can only think ourselves lucky that Rodney Alcala never got the chance to appear on the American version of Take Me Out. Still, we can't feel too much sympathy for the male contestants. The application process for Take Me Out isn't a cross between jury duty and an all-sexual Hunger Games. These men - like those who appear on The Jeremy Kyle Show to flunk their lie detector tests in a flurry of toothlessness and swearing, or those who appear on Embarrassing Bodies brandishing an alarmingly green penis – actually volunteer to flagellate themselves in this way, for the wicked amusement of unseen millions. There's a certain schadenfreude in watching men being made to feel, for even a short fraction of time, how most women have been made to feel for the past 65,555 years at the hands of men, but it's probably wrong to extrapolate the idea that Take Me Out is somehow Germaine Greer's favourite TV show. Striding in Cilla’s place at the helm of this pheromonal Armageddon is Paddy McGuinness, a catchphrase-spouting, pathologically winsome creature who was surely created in a special lad-boratory somewhere on the outskirts of Wigan by splicing together the DNA of a Butlins redcoat and the entire canon of Nuts Magazine.

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