The Beat Goes On
Wednesday, August 29, 2007So I have aged another year: no longer able to call myself an early twenty-something. Comfortingly, paranoid glances in the mirror reveal that crows feet are still a long way off. On the other hand, it seems neural degeneration has commenced in earnest. The most adult conversation had whilst making dinner this evening occurred after a discussion of wooden spoon rhythms culminated in the question:
“What if Simon Amstell were to present Countdown?”
Channel 4 would doubtless pay the saviour of Never Mind The Buzzcocks a vast sum of money to sit in for a week, throw withering comments at a cowering Carol Vorderman and reduce the already-timid dictionary corner to page-quivering wrecks. Surely ratings would soar as tantalised television viewers at home collectively held their breath in anticipation of the dreaded taboo: the tawdry yet inevitable puns on Richard Whiteley’s untimely death, and the resulting gasps of disapproval from a loyal studio audience of grieving would-be widows.
Yes – it’s all downhill from here. When the only constructive conversation that can be had involves cruel, questionable make-believe television programmes, you know there’s not long before all that’s left is to babble in a nondescript manner about the weather (and haven’t we had a dreadful summer!). And I’m not the only one whose marbles are rolling away: other housemate is cramming his mouth with last year’s Christmas pudding smeared with Flora and bathed in milk.
It’s all going terribly wrong. Send help.
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