Unusually, I watched TV programme Escape to the Country this afternoon. I say unusually, as I don’t often give daytime TV house space.
I don’t recall much about the show that seeks dream countryside residences for it participants, other than Alice and Rashid thought the mystery house was surprisingly spacious.
Deeming daytime TV as the broadcasting equivalent of a gossip laden, soap opera festooned and relationship advice loaded woman’s magazine, I ordinarily avoid daylight schedules like the plague.
To be fair to the daytime schedulers, I realise an unnaturally hirsute middle aged bloke isn’t their target audience. That demographic belongs to the aforementioned readers of lower end woman’s magazines.
You’ll no doubt be familiar with these publications. The type that give soap opera spoilers and real life tales of selected eccentric characters produced by this sceptred isle. Stories like the thirtysomething Bedford woman who married a horse, the elderly Gravesend man who got his ill-fitting dentures from a car boot sale and the Bridlington family who named their son Cheesecloth.
The yarns conveyed about these maverick people’s existences don’t vary much. It’s normally a case they are regurgitated as a different week, same uninteresting tale.
Of course there will be slight variances to the tales. For instance, next week the Bedford woman might marry a pair of dentures and the Gravesend man may buy an ill-fitting horse from a car boot sale.
I never quite get individuals engaging with these magazines, which seem intent on spoiling every worthy incident on their favourite programmes. Shows that are as much part of their lives as George the bloodhound, or the new acquired dentures from the car boot sale.
When I watch a TV show, I want to be held in suspense as to what direction the plot will take. I want there to be a dynamic between me and the plot, where I assess its every twist and nuance until the conclusion of the storyline.
These days many people don’t seem to want to wait to find out who killed Bob Troutman on the soap opera Truffles, or if Mary and Frank tie the knot in police drama You’ll Never Take Me Alive Copper. They feel the need to commence viewing a show already in possession of the story outcome.
This need for instant gratification at the expense of a wee bit patience mystifies me. But, perhaps I’m in the minority as this genre of publication is very popular amongst domiciles up and down the UK.
My personal preferences TV wise are post watershed dramas, informative documentaries, sporting events, Truffles, You’ll Never Take Me Alive Copper and binge watching boxsets on Netflix. I’m not by any stretch claiming I dislike TV, just I’m selective at what I watch. In addition to not wanting plotlines being spoiled.
For instance, if someone rang and disclosed Bob Troutman’s killer before tonight’s gripping episode of Truffles, I’d be less than chuffed. Probably not as angry as Cheesecloth is about the name he was bequeathed at baptism, but a mediocre level of displeasure similar to how I’d feel if I didn’t get an invite to Mary and Frank’s nuptials.
Right, I’m off to watch You’ll Never Take Me Alive Copper to see if they’ve sent of the wedding invites yet.