22. As well as being a supermarket bargain whore, I have to confess another vice. I enjoy TV. I’m proud to admit that as a moderately educated woman, I see no shame in deriving pleasure from taking in a spot of telly. As long as it’s not all day. In your pyjamas. With box wine. Well those are my rules for myself anyway. It irks me when I meet people who scoff at my efforts to make conversation with “Do you watch?” or “Did you see the episode of…?” Those judgmental types who believe that TV is the anti-Christ and regard me with disgust when I launch into describing the plot of a series I’m currently enjoying. It’s these folk, who in my opinion, probably watch things that normal people don’t. Weird stuff downloaded from the Internet at 2am when the broadband is fastest or DVDs that are delivered via courier in a parcel marked “Fragile”. Everyone has their thing. Some people enjoy Sports or Nat Geo or History or the Jesus Channels or Reality TV. There’s something for everyone. Like my Mom always says “Love…there’s a lid for every pot”. I openly declare that I crave nothing more than a drippy episode of Grey’s. I am enthralled at just how many asses Emily Thorne has to kick, houses to burn down, computers to hack or cameras to install to enact her complex crusade of Revenge. I will never (repeat never) get tired of lusting after Harvey Specter in Suits. I will always be secretly scared that I’m a little bit too much like Claire Dunphy (and not enough like Gloria) in Modern Family, but the series will always make me laugh. This may make me shallow, but at least I’m honest. Honest and shallow beats judgmental in my book. But then when it comes to books, I like to read crap too. So I’m not sure where that leaves us. Moving swiftly along.
Since arriving in Britain, I’ve been in serious awe of how jacked these Poms are when it comes to TV. No disrespect to the SABC and their efforts to broadcast across the rainbow nation a variety of programming intended to appeal to every demographic and each of the 11 official languages. It’s a tall order. No wonder they stuff it up. They can’t possibly succeed and it’s unfair to expect as much. DSTV will continue to laugh all the way to their private bank as long as the national broadcaster continues to deliver…well pretty much nothing. Let’s look at the SABC menu for a second. For your annual mandatory we-will-haunt-you-like-herpes-if-you-don’t-pay 250 ZAR, you will get, inclusive of, but not limited to:
- A US series of any description (Desperate Housewives, Heroes or The Good Wife) four years later than the current episodes being screened in Equatorial New Guinea.
- Soap operas so painful with plots so weak that even the actors look embarrassed (I’m sorry to the actors who seem like nice people) but with good reason.
- “Delayed live broadcasts” (an oxymoron according to my Grade 10 English) of the national sporting teams because Supersport owns the rights to broadcast these. Why? Simple. They coughed up the cash.
- “Delayed live broadcasts” (an oxymoron according to my Grade 10 English) of the national sporting teams because Supersport owns the rights to broadcast these. Why? Simple. They coughed up the cash.
- News updates or financial inserts where the English sub-titles are misspelt.
- An entire day’s worth of repeat infomercials for life insurance, funeral policies, leather repair kits, pool cleaners, miracle exercise machines and miracle skin renewal for wrinkles.
I am currently living in a country where the television options are akin to living in Columbia if you’re into drugs and stuff. There’s just so much choice. And so little time. And it’s so cheap. I have become addicted to Netflix, which is an on-demand Internet streaming media channel that we watch through our TV. It’s like being invited to a party with free drinks and an all-you-can-eat sushi buffet and no one judges while you scoff because they’re scoffing too. Aside from the multitude of kids movies and series, which have helped me through weeks of rain, snow and “ok so we’ve drawn 127 pictures Mom, now we’re bored”, there’s a host of offerings for grownups too. I’ve been able to watch Extras and re-watch the original series of The Office, which is my all-time favourite favourite. We’re proud (in a sad way) that we live across the river from Slough, where The Office is set. There’s nothing to be proud of really because Slough (like its name suggests) is a bleak little cesspit of a place, but the slight association with a series so brilliant makes us feel special. I have like totes the biggest crush on Ricky Gervais. I love his brand of humour, which makes you laugh and cringe at the same time. And then cringe because you’re laughing.
Another series I discovered which is as addictive as it is disturbing is a quirky British series called The Inbetweeners. The story follows a group of chavvy teenage boys and their perpetual quest to get laid. It’s disgusting. But I can’t stop watching it. It’s not a series that you openly admit to watching either. It’s like revealing that you and your husband are Crime and Investigation Channel freaks who enjoys nothing more than a dinner with your best friends (who happen to be just as ardent fans) where you discuss at length how a serial killer left a hollowed-out human head on someone’s doorstep and what the killer did inside the head before he left it. The Inbetweeners may not have a serial killer, but the gross and shock value is the same. Just in a different direction. You’re fascinated, but you know you should be appalled. And you’re also slightly concerned, because you have a son who will be a heaving mass of hormone in several years time and if the behaviour on The Inbetweeners is even a hint at what you’re in for…Well let’s just all have another drink.
Another series I discovered which is as addictive as it is disturbing is a quirky British series called The Inbetweeners. The story follows a group of chavvy teenage boys and their perpetual quest to get laid. It’s disgusting. But I can’t stop watching it. It’s not a series that you openly admit to watching either. It’s like revealing that you and your husband are Crime and Investigation Channel freaks who enjoys nothing more than a dinner with your best friends (who happen to be just as ardent fans) where you discuss at length how a serial killer left a hollowed-out human head on someone’s doorstep and what the killer did inside the head before he left it. The Inbetweeners may not have a serial killer, but the gross and shock value is the same. Just in a different direction. You’re fascinated, but you know you should be appalled. And you’re also slightly concerned, because you have a son who will be a heaving mass of hormone in several years time and if the behaviour on The Inbetweeners is even a hint at what you’re in for…Well let’s just all have another drink.
My husband follows Ricky Gervais on Twitter. We’ve shazam’d the Extras theme tune (it’s "Tea for the Tillerman" by Cat Stevens by the way). I’ve Google stalked The Inbetweeners actors. And we’re planning a trip to find the actual building on the Slough Trading Estate where The Office was filmed. We’ll take pictures and stuff like real freaks. British television has well and truly helped to ease our transition into this country. Through humour. Mostly inappropriate humour. But humour none-the-less. So it has to be said that South Africa, for the moment you can keep your SABC – from Shuster to Sewende Laan and every infomercial in between. We’ll go British on this one and opt for the BBC. No hard feelings.
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