I’m struggling to focus while writing this blog. Pre-weekly food shop, GJ Strachan is sitting in his mum’s living room bereft of the serenity he craves while embracing penmanship. A consequence of the several distractions in his locale. Neurological intrusions courtesy of reality TV show contestants bartering with antique stall owners – Along with fielding his mum’s questions which he’d already answered last week (and very probably the week before).
The TV show in question BBC’s golden gavel flagship Bargain Hunt (BH) A programme where contestants endeavour to profit from the aforementioned stall holder’s mis-pricing of curios. This all carried out with the indignity of dressing in shabby BH branded fleeces.
These garments so cheap and shabby looking that even the scruffy geriatric cast of sitcom Last of the Summer Wine refuse point blank to wear them.
In fact, so unappealing are these items of clothing, employees negotiating a contract with Auntie Beeb ensure agents insert a clause absolving them from donning these crimes to clothing.
If truth be told, Bargain Hunt is a harmless enough daytime entertainment broadcast. No animals are hurt in it’s making, and it gives a platform to members of the public who get giddy at walking away from a game show with £17 in their pocket and a golden gavel breast badge.
People, red of face and jolly of disposition, who are content with small profits at auction for items most people wouldn’t give houseroom. A fact that moves me to cynically allege the show’s production team must be the buyers of this predominantly worthless tat.
Poor individuals whose end of year performance reviews depend on them convincing the UK viewers that the show’s sartorially lacking contestants are great at spotting bargains.
With this in mind, I imagine the production team have homes full of trinkets, nick naks, bagatelle, jumble and curios acquired at auction. A strategy to ensure Bargain Hunt participants sell their wares and daytime broadcast schedules remain filled.
Failure to convince viewers of the genuine sale of each item punishable by management with the ignominy of adorning a t-shirt advising the rest of the team ‘I lost viewers to Phil & Holly on This Morning!’
As i begin this element of my blog, I’m now back at my mum’s home after concluding her weekly comestible shop. Sitting opposite her at the dining table, my distraction no longer the bartering on Bargain Hunt, but the noise of mater (Maggie) troughing her fish and chip supper. An audible disturbance which diverts my attention almost as much as my next door neighbour Dan’s daily drumming practise.
They say that god loves a trier. However, he’s obviously not enamoured with random northern blokes trying to write a monologue in peace and quiet.
If you’re wondering why I’m writing while my mum eats, I’m not having my supper until later. Earlier, Maggie magnanimously bought me a M&S curry for my dinner, which I will cook (well shove it in the oven) once I’ve concluded this literary effort.
As well as generosity of spirit, the old lady shows equal benefaction with acts of kindness. A much appreciated trait that stops me currently commenting “For god’s sake, mum!… Can you not eat a bit bl**dy quieter?!”
