13 July, 2011


You wait until the very end of time for a Horseman of the Apocalypse...

... and then four of them come along at once.

Never mind the decline of the English Church, a far more significant token of England's ineluctable demise is the vulgar decline of the British Soap Opera, as Corrie is overwhelmed by gay storylines, turning Weatherfield into a sort of gloomier version of San Francisco or Brighton with a funny accent. Eebagum booger me ecky thump 'ell as like tha knows, Violet Carson must be spinning so fast in her grave that if you attached electrodes to her you could meet the electric power needs of the whole of the North West.

Time was, when the world was young and straightforward and optimistic, that I was a passive fan of The Archers. Passive inasmuch as in our house Radio 4 is the default backing track and I didn't dislike the show enough to get up and switch it off. In them thar days The Archers had slow-paced plots about village social politics and agricultural topics which were well enough presented to engage the mild interest of a city boy. Plots developed gradually over weeks, almost in real time.

These days no epsode is considered acceptably gripping unless Usha Gupta comes out as the village's first Hindu Lesbian, Roy Tucker converts to militant Islam and attempts to blow up The Bull, or Lynda Snell is outed as a professional dominatrix running a dungeon staffed with trafficked Moldovan beauties. It's like the Midsomer Murders with added 'orsemuck. I can't reach for the off switch fast enough.

Bah! I'm off down Greenwich to get well and truly pluged on the Power Charger. Posting tomorrow, if any, will be very bad-tempered.

Best not to mention the queerly multicultural and progressive small island community of 'Balamory' then?

Soaps are like pissing in a bucket: it makes an odd rattling sound but is vaguely satisfying for a short while.

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