There are many things in which I am an expert. Nineteenth century Austrian literature, for instance. Laundry. The route from central York to the Northminster Business Park in Poppleton. Erm… well, I am sure there are lots of other things, though they escape me at the moment.
Though there is the thing in which I am most expert of all, namely television programmes.
I last watched television before my first child was born, so that would make it 18 years ago. However, I recently bought a television, because it fell into my trolley when I went to return a sheet to Monks Cross John Lewis. I also own a television licence, because traffic wardens are bad enough, without the telly-licence people coming to arrest me as well.
The television is not plugged in. The fact that I don’t have an aerial was a bit of a disincentive. However, I did take it out of its box, just to see what it looked like.
It was rather disappointing. I was expecting something big and bulky with a nice storage area on top, where I could display the wicker Spanish dancing lady my granny kindly left me when she died. However, this is a flat-screen item, which is no use at all.
And so it remains gathering dust. Meanwhile, though, its very presence in the house has enabled me to become an expert television critic. Or at least one along the lines of Richard Ingrams, who apparently watched it from a different room when he was the telly critic of The Spectator.
This is a life-changing discovery. Conversations with friends have been transformed. Rather than them saying: “Did you see…?” and me replying in a conversation-killing manner: “Um, no, I don’t have a telly”, I can join in wholeheartedly. My days as a social outcast are over.
And so I know all about Downtown Abbey. That’s the one which features Chicago drug dealer “Lady Mary” (clearly her rapper-name) and Mr Bates, innit? Unless I’m thinking of Downturn Abbey, which must be the BBC2 economics one.
Then there’s Antiques Roadkill. I’m pretty sure that’s the one where the presenter trawls through the freezers of all the nice houses outside Malton, wondering what to cook for supper. Or do I mean Antiques Road-rage, where all the oldies of York start fist-waving and horn-honking at middle-aged female cyclists for having the temerity to exist?
I could not write authoritatively about TV programmes without mentioning the one that everyone talks about: The Line of Beauty. I heard someone once refer to it as The Line of Duty, but they evidently don’t watch telly, so have no idea what they are talking about. Presented by Phil and Kirsty, it’s a lingering look at the row of houses stretching from The Mount to St George’s Place, with a spin-off series involving Mount Parade.
Of course, teenagers are catered for with Love Island. That’s the one with the Cornish farmer brandishing his scythe as he emerges from a lake in a wet t-shirt. Or now I come to think about it, I’m not so sure. It might in fact be the docudrama about what the hen-nighters and shouty baldies get up to on Foss Islands Road on Saturday nights. Kwik Fit plays a starring role. I think that one is probably related to Big Inflatable Brother and Naked Bungle, though I have to confess that I am slightly less expert in this field.
More salubrious are the telly programmes that aren’t intended as post-pub entertainment. Game of Thrones and The Crown, for instance, which are gripping tales of the rivalry between the families of Prince William and Prince Harry. I know this to be the case, as it is often mentioned in the Mail Online. And I really am an expert in Gentleman Jack, as I watched it being filmed. Therefore I know that it was a drama about ladies and gentlemen repeatedly walking up and down, wearing Olden Days costumes. I even know that this one involved a horse, so I would say that this programme could possibly be my specialist subject on Mastermind.
The medical profession is, as I know, well represented by Dr Who. That’s the one with the grisly cycling accidents. Unless that’s 24 Hours in A&E. It’s easy to muddle them up. Fleabag is the one that features Supervet Noel Fitzpatrick operating on dogs. As for One Born Every Minute: that’s the one aimed at the people who believe the word ‘gullible’ has been erased from the dictionary.
As for costume dramas: it’s all about Jane Austen. There’s Emma-dale Farm, the one set in the Dales. Not to mention the recent Sand Hutton (I’m sure it was the critics who were misspelling it when they called it Sanditon).
When I think about this veritable feast of entertainment, I’m almost tempted to try plugging my television in. But given that I am evidently such an expert already, I can only think that this would be Pointless.
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