I’m not a big tv watcher. Using Andy’s Calculation, there’s very little to watch. The Calculation goes like this:
99% of our 637 tv channels show 99% rubbish approximately (within 3 significant figures), 99% of the time. And I’m only interested in the remaining 1%. So we don’t ‘have the telly on’. Never. We turn it on to watch something, then turn it off again. Unless I’ve got the remote then I certainly have to check those other 636 channels just to make sure that there’s no ‘must sees’ on some lowly, deserted, obscure oldies channel. Something like Terminator 2, or Die Hard (the first), or a really cool music bio of a very old band, most of whom were dead by 1987 from drug abuse.

I say this not as some claim to superiority over those who wake up and turn the tv on from bed, then turn it off 18 hours later as their eyes are closing on the ending day. But its just what I am, what we do. Which does make me a bit superior, but only in a nice, pompous, sneering, holier-than-thou kind of way.

Yesterday, as predicted, there was a lot of rain. Interspersed with some (though very little) sunny bits. Just a few. The afternoon walk was cancelled, so I watched some of the QPR/Derby playoff match. Dull as dishwater. Terrible game. Went out for a while, listened to some of it on the car radio, the commentators fell asleep, woke up and spoke of their holiday plans for the summer. There was no football worth mentioning. Then QPR had a man sent off. That was the total excitement of the game until the 88th minute when (Spurs reject… and West Ham reject, and Fulham reject, and…) Bobby Zamora hit the one and only, hence ‘winning’ goal. QPR go to the Premiership. Harry Rednap returns.

Then we came home. And the heavens dids’t open. Fuck me dids’t they open. Hail, the size of hailstones! Ok, they weren’t exactly big but there were loads of them. Hundreds, at least, if not more. For ages and ages. “Well”, I proclaimed, “we certainly can’t go out in this!!” and promptly turned on the rugby. Which was wonderful. Brilliant game. Jonny Wilkinson signing off from the game in definitive style.

It was still pouring, then it stopped. Brilliant. We have the brother-and-sister-in-law coming round for a barbecue. Rain’s stopped. Great. Get it all ready. And we did. Prepared the requisite 4 times more meat than 4 people could ever eat under ‘normal’ circumstances, throw in some lettuce leaves ‘for the gels’ and fire up the barby. Then it rained again. Big rain. Lots of it. But all was not lost because the Champions’ League final was just kicking off. But dinner guests? And tv???? That’s simply not acceptable. Completely incompatible with accepted protocols of British decency, dining and hostage. Might as well spit on the Queen’s crown as turn the tv on at dinner.

The sun came out. Hoorah. We barbecued, Flinstones scale meat. Then after the feast we took our port and coffee and cigars (not really but its just the image; light up a stogie in our house and the smoke alarms would have the Fire Brigade here in 10 minutes but the anti-smoking lobby here in 6) and watched the end of the Madrid vs Madrid final. The injury time equaliser for Real. The extra time. In which Gareth Bale scored THE important goal. I don’t care that a couple of foreigners scored yet further goals, Gareth was the hero. The Spurs boy (if only) came good. One year away and he’s already won the Champions League. Bless him. He could have won it for Spurs. If he’d just stayed another 6 generations. Maybe.

Then we turned the tv off.

And then, after they’d gone I turned it sneakily back on for The Eagles Story (part 1).

Brilliant day. Brilliant night. Lucky I don’t like tv. Or rain.

Happy sunday, let the sun shine all day.

A xxxx