Television, I could live without you.

AirbombWhat, I ask you, led to me being sucked in to watch 4o minutes of hysterical women sobbing and acting rather poorly and Phil Daniels corrolating a traumatic death with directly proportional cross-eyedness? Why on earth would I subject myself to cheap emotional manipulation spouted in the sort of accent you don’t find outside of Ridley Road in the modern world? Because TV consists of the sort of flickering lights that have some sort of magic hold over the human eye; some sort of sorcery, no doubt. How else could I explain having watched Eastenders yesterday, when I went in with no desire to, no need to and surely other things to do?

Airbomb had the right idea, on their contribution to BYO’s rather marvellous ’99 compilation of grass-roots-level punk rock, Greetings From The Welfare State. On Turn It Off, Romford’s finest encourage you, in no uncertain terms to get off your backside and turn off the television, well aware of the irony that those who need this advice most will never evern hear this song, because Eastenders is on tonight.

You can tell it even in the very young, as even my baby niece, not yet six months old, will track the television as she is pushed past: her eyes lock, her head swivels… It’s the same right into adulthood. I’ve promised myself that when I grow up I won’t keep a telly in the house (kind of tricky to suggest in shared accommodation), but I’m looking forward to the day when it’s usual for me to eat dinner at the dining table, to spend evenings engrossed in a book with a large cup of coffee, and not have my time drained away by a million channels of stuff I don’t want to look at.

Hardly topical I know, sorry, although Phil Daniel’s dying the death of a ham could be construed as reasonable, but that’s how I feel, and what is a blog if it’s no personal manifesto?

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