Confessions of a TV Addict
I currently own two TVs. One is somewhat small, the other rather too large. Neither is anything fancy, like a plasma TV, or the latest flat panel high definition thingy. Neither one even has a working remote. Since they now live in my parents’ garage I don’t suppose this is really a problem.
Except, that is, on the odd occasion that they’re let into the house, following the refusal by one or other of my parents’ own TVs to screen the undoubted majesty of Heartbeat, or some other such televisual masterpiece - understandable really, I suppose. In fact, I doubt if any of my parents’ TVs have ever really broken, each one has probably just succumbed to terminal disenchantment after prolonged exposure to ITV1’s evening schedule. One can only imagine their pain, the poor unsuspecting little goggle-boxes.
I don’t live at my parents’, though; I just store my TVs there. Frankly, their almost exclusive fondness for programmes involving murder or hospitals began to make me uneasy…
Obviously, I’m kidding. Sort of.
They’re both perfectly harmless and lovely, of course. But still, Midsomer Murders, Cracker, Prime Suspect, Lewis, Morse, Taggart, Frost, Rebus: are these the viewing habits of people it’s safe to share a house with? If anyone knows how to commit the perfect murder, it’s probably my Mum.
It’s probably safe here in Cornwall, though.
Before that, I tried Cambridge. It was there that I acquired the aforementioned idiot-boxes. One I bought, in the usual manner; the other was my girlfriend’s. Thankfully, she wasn’t a murder fan. She did like Big Brother, though. And Celebrity Big Brother. Somehow we lasted three years together. Or maybe it just felt like it. Either way, she left me with a second TV and an equally unneeded freezer. I gave that to the parents too. They didn’t need it either, but it was underneath one of my tellies the last time I was there, so I suppose it came in useful eventually.
And why didn’t the TVs follow me to the land of pasties and clotted cream?
I’d only have watched the damned things. Sitting there for hours on end, day after day, staring in puzzlement at Simon Cowell’s anatomically incorrect waistline, trying unsuccessfully to find a primetime show that didn’t involve one or more of the holy trinity of cooking, child-wrangling or property, or trying desperately to convince myself that there’s no such person as Jeremy Kyle - I live in hope that one day he’ll finally be revealed to have been a particularly elaborate and cruel invention of Chris Morris. After all, the alternative is too dispiriting to contemplate.
In other words, I’m a TV addict. That’s why I don’t have any tellies.
Or I was. After three long years of cold turkey, I’m finally cured. Free! Truly, truly free. Let my parents do what they like with my TVs. Burn them, throw them out, even watch the things, for all I care (although I’d sleep easier if they’d refrain from watching so many murders). Never will I need the cursed things again.
Now if I could just kick this iPlayer addiction…
Bloody internet.
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