Sometimes I go to see my parents just to remind myself why I don’t have a TV licence.
Tonight they were watching a show where minor celebrities have to guess which other minor celebrity has dressed up in fancy-dress... and is now singing to them from inside a butterfly, or a giant duck, or a bumblebee costume. I don’t know if I could care any less about this.
So they switched over. Jason Manford was hosting a gameshow in which the contestants were guessing the size of a potato.
I rest my case.
Next up, the Saturday Night TV Pendulum swung all the way over to Casualty, where hospital staff don’t look anything like hospital staff, and spend a third of the show trying to be social workers, a third sorting their own messy lives out, and a final third dealing with unspeakable blood and goo and (shudder) effluent. That last third is probably realistic but I definitely don’t want to see it. I really definitely don’t want to see it.
“You’re not going to comment all the way through it, are you?” said my Mum, grinning. I made a zip-mime across my mouth and put a hood over my head.
On another channel, Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum were blowing up aliens. I thought about that for a full thirty minutes. That, and the best way to tell the size of a potato.
No comments:
Post a Comment