Crap TV

It’s a sorry situation when you’ve had a long Monday and all you want to do when you get home is to relax in a comfortable couch and watch some good TV.

I have the comfortable couch, but my remote freedom is constrained to the four channels on offer via public broadcasting (make that three: my reception is so bad on the fourth that it doesn’t count).

First there are the incredibly bad adverts to sit through. Like the one for Gaviscon, an antacid. I’ve seen two versions of this one, both featuring someone walking into a chemist in obvious discomfort. The characters are the typical heartburn types: the man who’s been eating too much junk (or beer and biltong with rugby?), and the pregnant woman. What’s funny (and bad) about the ads is that before being given the remedy, they have to listen to the chemist describe not only all the great things about the product, but also the causes of indigestion. And you can just see that all they’re thinking is “Just shut up and give me something to make it go away”. Really, one would have thought that the wooden “scenario” ads might have died a peaceful death back in the 70s or 80s, can’t we just get on with advertising what a product is and does without having to sit through crappy scripts, acting and plastic smiles galore? (Don’t get me started on the toilet products: “It’s not clean till it’s HARPIC clean!”)

Then the “feature” last night was the second episode of the latest season of Footballer’s Wives. I know, I know, I should have known better. And I did, but, you know…

The amazing thing about this programme is that the intrigue is so…unintriguing. That’s about all I can say. In my defence, I did fall asleep before the end. Saved by the couch. Tonight, I read.

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