I have a lot more to say for myself than that tedious boring little, fat ennui who took it upon himself to give me – me????? – A pep talk. I have sent him and his porcine posterior to do what he was put on this planet to do – which is to serve me. He is currently in the local shop (for local people) getting a bottle of Jack Daniels and a bottle of Southern Comfort and several packs of French cigarettes. I’m not paying him, he owes me, and he really owes me for having the sheer bloody nerve in trying to hijack this blog. Ah, this blog! What can I say? I haven’t been as attentive to you as I may have been and what happens, ma Cherie? A little fat git tries to seduce you. Well that little fat git is out of the picture now and I’m back to bore you, irritate you, piss you off, make you laugh and more importantly if I can I’ll make you think.
I’d like comments from you about what you think of the things I write about. I look with envy at the blogs of others and see literally hundreds of comments liberally sprinkled, I have my faithful few so perhaps that should make me content. If you want to comment just use your name or Twitter handle and @denbow.co.uk. That way your privacy is preserved but I get some feedback.
I watch a lot of TV unfortunately and in all honesty some of it I consider to be outstanding and some of it is utter tosh. Other programmes are merely mediocre and others completely crap. I consider the utter tosh as a cut above the merely mediocre because the utter tosh gives me the feeling of harmless entertainment for the Countdown Generation. You know the sort of thing; Midsomer Murders, Miss Marple, Poirot, Lewis, Wycliffe etc ad nausea. For my sins I love these programmes, really. There’s an inherent politeness in them all that sums up my ideal vision of life ought to like.
These programmes are set where everyone is nice and well mannered. They’re usually middle class and frequently obscenely wealthy. A bit like Downton Abbey where you know someone is definitely, absolutely, certainly going to get bumped off. The poor are poor because they choose to be and are oftentimes somewhat bohemian characters – artists, poets, novelists, and bloggers. You get the odd crazed musician, usually a female concert pianist who has gone bonkers after seeing her pet goldfish drown or something similar. The murders and the mortality rate per show are terrifyingly high. It appears from these programmes that these sceptered isles have several serial killers just waiting to be caught and they always are by the motley crew of detectives.
There’s always something odd about the murders in these programmes. No slashing leaving a trail of bloody and gore. No the victim is always dispatched swiftly and without much in the way of mess. It’s almost as if the murderer and victim discuss the murder and plot together to bring the deed to fruition.
“Sorry old man, but I’m in a bit a bit of squeeze at the moment.”
“Is it the usual thing, money worries?”
“Well yes it is. That and the illegitimate twins living in the next village.”
“Oh, that’s a shocker!”
“You see I bumped off Marjorie for her money, the housekeeper as she was a witness and now I need to bump you orf in such a way that it looks like suicide. You know the sort of thing; you can’t live with the guilt of killing them”
“Yes, I see you’re in a bit of a pickle. Why don’t I just bump myself orf, save you the problem and throw detective right orf the scent. I do have a terminal illness don’t cha know?”
All complete and utter tosh of course but this sort of tripe is served up to the nation’s geriatrics as an antidote to vowel, vowel, consonant etc.
I don’t mind TV like this they’re entertaining and as comfortable as your favourite chair. However, in a few days I’ll slap you in the face with a few thoughts about Storage Wars. Bet you can’t wait……
Ciao For Now,