Farewell, ER. It's been a slice.

Carol Hathaway turns to Doug Ross in their bed in Seattle and gives him good news. The kidney from one of their dead patients has been given successfully to “some doctor” in Chicago.

And I, in my living room in London, burst into tears. That wasn’t even the last episode of ER, but the valedictory note was enough to dissolve me. Hathaway and Ross didn’t know it, but the “some doctor” was John Carter, the most luckless character in television history and their former comrade-in-arms at Cook County General. It was heart-breaking they didn’t know (especially after meeting Sam and Neela and reeling off a list of names to see if they had any mutual friends, yet mysteriously not including Carter’s, presumably to avoid an interchange that would tip them off about the kidney’s destination. Would Doug really ask about Anspaugh before Carter? Unless Carol had heard through a nurse friend that Carter was in Darfur. But if so, why didn’t Doug mention the nurse? It’s possible I’m overthinking this); but it also felt completely right. They had moved on, and as they have, so has television: ER, once the coolest kid on the televisual block has, after fifteen years, reached the end of the road.

Gates, my favourite of the newbies on ER, didn’t even recognise Carter when he turned back up again (to the wonderful strains of “The Town Where You Belong” by Earlimart, a brilliant LA band that deserves 20,000% more recognition that it gets on either side of the Atlantic). “Are you the one that got that nurse pregnant and moved up to Seattle?” he wondered. “Come on!” Cecile and I shouted in unison. I mean, nice that Gates got the right season, but isn’t getting stabbed and becoming a drug addict the sort of gossip that would last nine years, rather than starting a family with your girlfriend and moving to the Pacific Northwest? Added to which, can you even imagine back in the day anyone confusing Ross with Carter? Carter sighed and said: “No, that was someone else.” Later on, he had to explain to Banfield why he was on dialysis: “some years ago, I was involved in an incident here. I was stabbed by a patient and a med student was killed.” God, it really was “some years ago”, and it wasn’t any med student, it was Lucy! Carter’s voice and face registered that knowledge, but it meant nothing to Banfield. After having his competency constantly questioned – which is so 1995, and Neela ain’t no Benton – he ended up talking to some random doctor who didn’t know him. “I’m, well, new, sort of,” he explained.

Oh hell no. Excuse me? Unacceptable. To paraphrase Norma Desmond, it isn’t that Carter got new; it’s that everyone else got, um, newer. Carter was new in 1994, and I know, because I was there watching him. That shot of Greene staring at someone that was in the old, good, original credits? That was the last time Carter was new, and Greene died seven years ago. So shut up, everyone, and step off my boy. “It’s like bizarro ER,” he observed. “Kind of the same, but every little thing is different.” To which the world’s viewers sighed as one: “Amen.”

But time passes. Carter was right. ER isn’t the ER it once was, the people have changed, the show has changed. The last series has brought constant reminders of absent friends – Carter, Ross, Hathaway, Weaver, Corday, Benton, even poor dead Greene have all turned up again. The nostalgia has been practically overwhelming, even before Rachel Greene, former sweet toddler, turned nightmare teen, turned medical student, rocked up. And really the only continuum has been the viewer and the set. Even the set changed over the years. And God knows this viewer has – I was ten when ER began, my mother watched the first episode and decided there was too much blood, so I had to watch it for years in my brother’s room without her knowledge. She was utterly right, in my adolescence I was traumatised by many episodes of ER, tales of industrial accidents, paralysed kids, but most memorably a teenager so burned that he would die in days having a last phone conversation with his parents before they intubated him and he would not be able to talk again. That was years ago, and I can still remember the horror. Even the final episode has given me a new neurosis: a woman giving birth somehow managed to push her uterus inside out, something I really didn’t need to know was possible until after I have my future children.

Even its biggest fan would agree ER is no longer in its fullest glory, but it had a graceful enough twilight and frankly, after fifteen years, every single person who has been involved must be, and should be, incredibly proud. Extraordinarily few series manage over five years, and even a long-running quality series like The West Wing reached the end of its road after seven, not a moment too soon. ER’s special.Probably ER’s secret was always its ensemble casting. The satellites around whom the department revolved – Mark Greene, Carter, Ross, Carol, Abby Lockhart, Kerry Weaver, Archie Morris; changed over the years, but always the cast was strong. You had the nurses and desk clerks that were always there – Lydia, Haleh, Malik, Lily, Shirley, Jerry, Randy, Frank. There were deaths – Lucy, Pratt, Gant, Romano, Greene, Gallant; births – Carol, Elizabeth, Susan, Benton, Chen and Abby’s kids; and there were endless, endless loveless romances, mostly involving, in different combinations, Carter, Abby, Neela and Kovac – ER’s single recognisably happy romantic relationship was Carol/Ross. It’s had epic friendships: Greene/Ross, Carter/Benton, Romano/Corday, Susan/Greene are the most memorable ones.

Some medical students went on to be great doctors – Carter, Neela; some were disasters – Malucci, most notably. There were terrible disasters: stillborn babies, divorces, loss of limbs, drug addiction; but there was time for basketball in the ambulance bay, many practical jokes, parties in the lounge and chilling in Doc Magoo’s (before it burned down). You didn’t bond with every character, you didn’t need to. You don’t like Cleo, or Pratt, or Abby? No problem, there are about twenty other characters you can still care about. Added to which, people came and went with such frequency that invariably the person you hated would be out the door in two years. The ensemble meant ER beautifully manufactured a world into which you could slip every week, where you knew the people and the score.

Over the years ER has given television far more than just George Clooney to ogle (personally, I always did and still do find Noah Wyle more swoonsome, but appreciate most of womankind see this differently). It pretty much invented smart television that didn’t spell everything out for you, rapid-fire, jargon-filled dialogue, epic Stedicam action, multi-strand episodes with resolutions which were sometimes unsatisfying, sometimes never known. ER didn’t treat the viewer like they were stupid, it threw you in and whether you kept up or not was entirely up to you. The West Wing couldn’t have happened without ER, The Wire couldn’t have happened without ER. On a significantly less important scale, I wouldn’t be in television without ER, and I’m sure that applies to others too.

Aged 16, sitting next to my mother, both of us sobbing our hearts out, as Lucy expired (thereby entering my TV Hall of Fame as Lucy/Carter became one of the Great Television Couples That Never Were), it was a demonstration of the power episodic television has, which feature films cannot hope to challenge. I’ve never understood how you can really care or root for people you’ve only known for two hours. But inviting characters into your living room for an hour every week for years – now that’s wielding emotional power, for laughs and for tears alike. We’ve gone to that hospital weekly for fifteen years! Carter has effectively lived his adult life on our television screens: he started as an adorable, clueless med student in his early twenties and matured through personal and professional disasters on an almost operatic scale to emerge a mostly adorable, hardened Attending in his mid- thirties, but still recognisably the kid who once couldn’t put in an IV. Watching him realise his unborn baby was dead, and supporting his wife giving birth to it was totally devastating. It was only right he didn’t get a tied-up ending. Carter was as in flux as the series, no one would have believed an ending for him, happy or sad. He’d become too real to have an ending – he was irritating, smug and self-righteous towards the time he left the regular cast, but dammit, he was Carter. He was our smug, self-righteous irritant.

That’s why I love television, and that’s why I work in it. Even when it’s all rubbish and horrible and you want to die and you’re about eighty- three pages behind schedule at ten in the morning, or your director is freaking out, or it’s raining, or you’re losing light (or chasing dawn) or the stock is damaged: that’s the thing you know you’re working for. Not everyone saves lives; in the big scheme of things most peoples’ jobs aren’t heroic. TV most certainly isn’t. But it’s fun and it’s satisfying, not just for the people who make it, but hopefully the viewers too. It’s about the adrenaline, not BAFTA.

In fifteen years, ER has had its lows: After Season 6, it became noticeably darker and not, I think, for the best. With Ross’ easy charm and good humoured bantering gone, and Carter never the same after the stabbing (a shame, since Noah Wyle has sensational comic timing – who can forget him finding a snake in a cupboard?), much of the comedy that characterised the early years went missing, never to be seen again. After about Season 10, it had become almost a different show altogether – far more soapy, with beautiful young people as all the main characters and more and more concentration on the disasters ER characters routinely made of their love lives. Other lowlights: Romano’s ridiculous death, Greene and Corday’s deeply unconvincing romance, Carter’s mysterious inability to summon up any sort of sexual tension with anyone apart from Lucy, Abby’s endless misery, all of Pratt and Sam, most of Chen, Weaver’s personality transplant, Kovac’s crashingly dull struggle with his demons. Oh, yeah. There have been major blunders.

But so what? Fifteen years. The level of writing, acting and directing has never really dropped substantially for long. It’s not been anywhere near as good as once it was – but then once it was so good, that even bad ER is better than most other things. I still kind of feel that they’ve just turned off the cameras, and County General is still running somewhere, albeit staffed by whiney, nymphomaniac incompetents.

It’s sad that ER, which didn’t just lead the field but effectively invented it, has lost viewers to such processed, formulaic and vacuous shit as Grey’s Anatomy and House. ER, as each departing old-timer on the show traditionally exhorted the one left behind, set the tone. But everything has a shelf-life. TV should thank God for ER. I thank God for ER, and bid all involved, real and fictional, adieu and fair sailing.

The Wire: The view from the outside

Monkey has been dispatched to Heathrow, rather grumpily, what with it being at 4am. Television never sleeps! Anyway, he's off for two weeks, sticking cameras in the faces of hardened criminals across Central America and the Caribbean or something. I don't know much about this project because whenever I ask he adopts a smirk and informs me I would be worried if I knew. The extent of my worry for him is that he is clearly suffering from arrested adolesence, and still imagines he is James Bond. As it is, I am highly concerned for my digital camera, which he has taken with him. My last one was stolen from me on a shoot in Kingston (Jamaica, not London), and if another one gets nicked in similar circumstances I'm going to be furious. Being a cameraman, he has about six digital cameras of his own, but apparently mine was the only one he was willing to risk on his dangerous mission.

This has worked out rather well, because has scored a double whammy of losing her job (redundancy) and breaking up with her boyfriend in the same week and is consequently sleeping on my sofa and taking the Kilburn air. Neither activity seems to be particularly benefiting her poor, addled state. It's working out reasonably well, though, which looks hopeful should we decide to flatshare together after the impending Move. Anyway, Cecile's initial stage of grief involved lying on the sofa listening to "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me" by Dusty Springfield over and over again, which is a beautiful song but on loop it can only lower the spirits, what with all the drama over the Move. When I put my iTunes at her disposal (she and her boyfriend had made the frankly disastrous decision of having a joint iTunes, which now means it is entirely tainted for her, poor love), she just listened to Laura Marling's wonderful but really depressing album "Alas I Cannot Swim", which I would recommend in any circumstance other than having just lost job and boyfriend in one fell swoop.

Anyway, along with Cecile came The Wire boxset. It has sat for some days on top of my West Wing boxset. Whenever Cecile surfaces from her slough of despond, it is generally to berate me for not having cracked into it. How could I consider myself a true TV-phile if I didn't think The Wire had the edge on King Lear for drama?

The thing is, I don't dislike The Wire. I really don't. It is fantastically written, it is beautifully acted and the look of it is sensationally fresh and new. I don't dislike it. I just - and society has made me feel monstrously guilty for saying so - don't much like it. I rented the first series through LoveFilm and honestly, half the time I forgot I had the disc. I used to have to go through every possible prevarication before putting the damn thing in, and then when I had finished the disc I would take forever to put it back through. I don't exactly blame The Wire evangelicals for this reluctance, but it really did feel like work. The parts are marvellous, but the whole left me cold.

For me, television has to make you care deeply, profoundly, about what's going on. Dawson's Creek for example - terrible in almost every way - but when I was thirteen the sight of Pacey writing on a wall "Ask Me To Stay" for Joey set the bar for my romantic hopes for the future. In that sense -for me- Dawson's Creek is the more successful piece of television than The Wire. It stayed with me. Nothing about The Wire has stayed with me, really. Its technical achievements, I very much hope, will continue to be developed and taken on by series that have characters with a pulse, but McNulty etc don't do it for me. Each episode should grip you, both in and of itself and also create a lasting relationship with the characters - ask Charles Dickens. If I'm not frothing at the mouth with concern for McNulty, the job isn't done and I know the show isn't for me. Virginia Woolf once wrote that writers can build beautiful houses with their prose: "but what if life refuses to live there?" I feel like that with The Wire. That doesn't make me stupid. It just means it is possible for intelligent people to watch The Wire and not think it is the best thing ever on television.

The argument that it's too revolutionary to tick mainstream boxes doesn't wash. Other series have managed to break boundaries without having to create a UNESCO status for themselves, which is what the producers and stars of the thing have somehow managed. You don't like The Wire? That just means you're not recherche enough, is the general theme. Whatever. How good can a show actually be if no one watches it? Surely the only real measure of success is that people like your show and watch it - otherwise, what the hell are we making it for? This isn't high art, it's a business. Why don't UK companies make things like The Wire? people ask. Because no one would watch it. Would you want the BBC to spend millions on a programme 500,000 people would care about? People don't want The Wire on primetime.

The Wire is television made status symbol, and it's nauseating. Its more militant fans need to get it straight that to know it is not to love it, and it doesn't make you a better person if you do love it. It is actually really quite okay not to like it. Moaning about apparent unfairness of treatment is equally ridiculous. Bottom line: TV is about appealing to the masses. Fact.

This and that or some such shit: Easter in the nursery

I am feeling rather proud of myself, having just reduced my seven-year-old niece to tears on Easter Sunday. There is, you see, a ban on High School Musical/Hannah Montana bullshit in the house. This ban was my idea, and indeed the condition on which I came home for Easter. After this Christmas, when I very nearly drowned in sentimental bollocks from the Disney Corporation, I flatly refuse to go through that again. I police this very strictly, and have just confiscated a High School Musical soundtrack which was deafening us all. "It's for your own good," I informed the howling spoilt brat. Which indeed it is, as both shows put across an extremely warped and unnatural vision of the world, in which boys are so weirdly asexual that you feel if you pulled down their trousers they'd have no genitals and girls are pretty innocents only concerned with true love. Both demand conformity and condemn imagination. "One day you'll be very embarrassed, and in the meantime if I hear When There Was Me and You one more time I'm going to implode in on myself." I have lost some superiority though having eaten so much chocolate and drunk so much wine I now have such a bad stomach ache I'm lying on the floor in my bedroom, my mother's cat slumbering against me. My niece has recovered sufficiently to be massacring the Harry Potter theme tune on her recorder. Unfortunately there is nothing in the House Constitution which can lead me to ban this too, but something will be figured out before Christmas.

The niece taken care of thusly, it's only fair to point out that the riot shields were out yesterday for the nephews over Doctor Who. Opinion was divided over the quality of the show, an interesting exploration of a bus trip gone very badly, involving flying metallic stingrays, as far as I could tell. I don't know why bus trips must always end up with the flying metallic stingrays, but indeed they must. Is it worth pointing out that the 200 bus doesn't go anywhere near Victoria? It probably isn't. But it doesn't. Welshmen, what can you do. Anyway, aside from a rather confusing change to advertised bus routes and a cavalier attitude to law and order, I didn't think it was at all bad. Lee Evans was a revelation as a nerdy scientist, and wholly balanced out a slightly underwhelming Michelle Ryan who had a thankless character in Lady Christina. It was a jolly adventure, in happy contrast to most of Doctor Who these days, although ended up with a portent of DOOOOM from a psychic lady. "You'll knock four times," she warned the Doctor, which set me and my oldest brother (father of nephews) off on what we considered to be quite an entertaining re-imagining of The Postman Always Rings Twice.


My youngest nephew lapped up the Doctor Who, but the oldest nephew has, since the last time I saw him, morphed into a terrifyingly accurate version of Armstrong and Miller's RAF pilots. My nephew is 11 and goes to a highly respected public school, and consequently has the most cringingly plummy accent you can imagine but has, from influences unclear, picked up extraordinary lingo. "I has parsnips though, innit?" He remarked to my befuddled mother when she tried to give him another roast potato. "Can't have no more carbs though, it's like bad for you innit?" His reaction to Doctor Who was succinctly put: "The effects are totally sick, but it's like, all that exoskeleton shit, what?" No one had the least idea what he was on about, but we all understood the full meaning of "shit" and he was told off accordingly.

Anyway, said nephew poured the most extreme scorn on me when I elected (post-Doctor Who) to watch Primeval. It's worth noting I am a much-youngest child in the family, and consequently have enjoyed until recently far more "one of the gang" relationship with my nephews and nieces than their parents, but finally the generation gap is yawning before me. The contempt doled out by my nephew was astonishing. "It's like a kid's programme," he remarked. "I'm too old for it now, you know?" I'm not. I quite liked it, and truly didn't see the twist (such as it was) coming. I didn't think Primeval had the capacity to surprise. I am now quite intrigued to see a post-Cutter series. This could be the shot in the arm required to boost it somewhere into a dimension where Nephew A could acknowledge its existence.

In the meantime, me and my youngest brother are doing our best impressions of Sir Digby Chicken Caesar and Ginger in our capacity as the setters of good examples to our errant young relative. WINE!

If this isn't what Jesus intended for Easter, I don't know what he was on about.

The Boat that Rocked: Carry on drowning

Richard Curtis is an undeniably talented storyteller. They may not be the most complicated or original of stories, but he can spin them. But The Boat that Rocked is a horrible mess. The idea is a good one - pirate radio, pop music bursting into the uptight 60s society. The actors are superb - Rhys Ifans, Bill Nighy, Chris O'Dowd and Philip Seymour Hoffman especially, and the soundtrack is basically the pulse of the film. But there are major, insurmontable problems. There is no narrative. There is no characterization, beyond the crudest possible cardboard-cutout. There is no point - you can't score political or social satire within the context of a Curtis-ized, fantasy England. It is way too long and halfway through you are lost in meandering nothingness, not sure where you are going or why. None of those observations mean that it would necessarily be an unpleasant experience to watch - God knows, worse sins have been committed to celluloid.

But there is something even more serious than that. Misogyny is a strong word, but frankly it can be applied to this film. I am in no way a miltant feminist, and initially was embarrassed by the fact I was even taking offensive. "It's a Richard Curtis film," I thought. "Can I really be turning all bra-burning over a Richard Curtis film? It's only a bit of fun." As has been spelled out above, it isn't much fun, but after all that was the intention. I tried to think I was being overly sensitive - I hate all this "taking offence" business, this outrage-for-the-sake-of-it. Well, fuck intentions. This film was misogynistic. Not to say that the men emerge brilliantly - but at least they are supposed to be funny. I'm not outraged or baying for blood, it is only my opinion.

There are basically three women in the film - spoilers be ahead. Not that they're really spoiling anything, as mentioned, there is no plot. One is called Marianne. Marianne is a pretty eighteen-year-old girl, the niece of Bill Nighy's character Quentin. Quentin invites Marianne onboard, then invites his randy eighteen-year-old godson Carl to have dinner with her, promising him "a good time" - essentially pimping his teenage niece. But she's well up for it anyway, as it transpires. Carl takes one look at her (literally - no words are exchanged) and borrows a condom from his friend. After pretend mock-outrage, Marianne promises to sleep with Carl that night, only to leap into bed with a DJ played by Nick Frost having exchanged no words at all with him. She turns up later and shows Carl the promised good time. That's it. Pretty, nubile teenage girl, pimped by one elderly man to a teenage boy, shagging a middle-aged man on the way. She only appears on screen to be screwed, she has no interior life or characterisation beyond that purpose. She has more lays than lines.

OK. Let's move onto Elenore. Elenore is played by the stunning beautiful, and really quite talented, January Jones from Mad Men, who has the good grace to look completely ill at ease and nauseated throughout. A DJ, Simon, announces he's marrying a girl he met two weeks previously. She turns up, is said Elenore. After being leched over revoltingly by all onboard, she has what her new husband says was a "disappointing" shag on the wedding night. She then tells Simon that actually she is in love with his colleague, played by Rhys Ifans, who she met before she met Simon. Rhys Ifans wouldn't marry her (the only way she's allowed on board), so she decided to marry Simon instead, but having fulfilled her wedding night obligations she would now would be moving in with Ifans' character next door. Simon is naturally distressed, especially when Elenore thoughtfully points out he'll be able to hear them having sex. Elenore, having been in two scenes (the wedding, the post-wedding night) is despatched, after sleeping with Ifans' character three times. Her behaviour is completely fucking insane, and I'm not leaving out some aspect of the situation which renders it in any way either believable or tolerable, it is what it is. Women are so up for it with Ifans' character, they'll marry and shag anyone.

So then we have the others. Carl's mother, bafflingly played by Emma Thompson, who is a slut and has slept with most of the characters in the past and notches up another one in her brief appearance. The female fans who turn up on the boat, strip off and have an orgy with one of the DJs. The two lesbians, who are basically nothing but the butt of lecherous jokes.

Every woman in the film is driven by one factor - sex, and the wilful determination to shag anyone who stands still long enough. None of them have any characterisation or depth. They just fuck. I know it's a comedy, and I know sex is funny, but there are a hundred ways of doing it that don't hold all women of all ages in utter contempt. But no one comes out of this well - the men are horrible, the women are whores and by the end of it you want them all to drown. I felt grubby just watching it. The Carry Ons were forty years ago, and even then they weren't exactly sophisticated humour. Grow the fuck up.

Wheel Update: Still turning

Alright, so a week on. What has happened?

1) Guitar Hero 3
Well, still haven't conquered Hard, but have finished off all songs on Easy at 100% and am galloping through Medium on 100%, so not despairing yet.

2) Twitter-izing self
Gone very badly and have committed Twitter suicide. Sick of watching other people's lives passing before my bored eyes. Maybe will return to the fold when I have something to Tweet about.

3) Searching for free stuff in London
The weather's been nicer, so parks have been of more use, but other wise an EPIC FAIL.

4) Mentally cleaning
Still in the theoretical sphere, I fear. Although I did take out the recycling, which has to count for something, somewhere.

5) Watching television to remind self of outside world
Sadly, Assumpta died on Ballykissangel on Friday (Monkey was touchingly concerned for the distraught Father Peter, and when the bereaved priest wandered distractedly onto the bridge after his lady love's demise, Monkey shrieked in an extraordinarily anguished tone: "Shit, is he going to jump?!"). It was very sad. Meanwhile (as predicted) I have given into the allure of Cash in the Attic. Can anyone explain why it is so damn difficult to turn that thing off halfway through? Even if I try to walk away I only make it to the kettle before I find myself dying to know whether that candlestick made the £100 needed to pay for the contributor's scooter, or whatever. Hours and hours and hours of television watching, although strangely the outside world seems to be slipping away from me rather than retaining any sort of clarity.

New:

Enjoying fame karma
James Corden is depressed, Mathew Horne is exhausted. Considering their relentless PR offensive for their lamentable comedy and film efforts have left the entire nation both depressed and exhausted, I feel this is only fair.

Spider Solitaire
Either this has got harder since I was at university, or I have got stupider. I spent almost two hours playing it yesterday afternoon, and only won one game (although I think another was pointlessly thrown away by a premature movement of a 7 of Spades, but once I realised the drastic consequences of it I couldn’t be bothered to go back and change it). My Win Percentage is the grand total of 8%. To be fair, I haven’t played much for three years but in the four years I squandered cheerfully at university I played it daily and I’m sure it was easier to win the bloody thing then. Or have I lost my Spider Solitaire-orientated brain cells? Is it another Windows Vista plot to create insecurity about your intelligence (like the conspiracy to hide Select All so intricately that it takes a full 25 minutes to find the first time)? I also don’t much care for the weird slurpy noise it makes nowadays when you drag a card. When I eventually won, it was a pyrrhic victory as I realised it was dark outside, dinnertime and I had achieved NOTHING. Apart from some CGI fireworks going off on my laptop and perhaps a measly addition to my pathetic record against what is, after all, a reasonably basic Artificial Intelligence. What will happen when the actual robots come? How massively talented at Spider Solitaire will they be? Combine that knowledge with the superheroic intelligence (some may say sabotage) displayed by Super Mario Kart when it notes you are about to win a 150cc circuit, and they will be unstoppable.

Pointless nostalgia
Alright, so I am now incapable of playing Spider Solitaire. That’s okay, it wasn’t a skill I’d put on my CV anyway. Now I’ve won one I can hopefully move on and accept it is just another door closing between the husk of a human being I now am and the gambolling innocent who used to lope around quiet quads in dappled summery afternoon sunlight, which is how I now picture I was at university. At that time, I never believed anyone when they informed me those would be the best days of my life. “Jesus,” I’d say, looking around me. “There must be something better than this.” Well, you would think, wouldn’t you? But it’s not true. Immensely talented people talking to you about immensely interesting things for just four hours a week in an immensely beautiful place surrounded by other immensely young and energetic people is, as it turns out, quite the highlight. I want to back to my university town and thump every navel-gazing student there, the self-centred bastards.

Along with the expiry of my Young Person’s Railcard and the infrequency these days of being ID’d when buying alcohol the latter two factors are perhaps just signs of my creeping age and not an electronic conspiracy after all. Like the disbelief I maintain that a DJ on Capital FM is actually called The Baseman, making me sound extraordinarily like my beloved mother as I exclaim: "He's a grown man called what?".

Perhaps an upside of this advancing age is that I no longer have the self-confidence/arrogance/flagrant idiocy to believe that I can, on some basic level, work every piece of equipment I come across by turning it off, unplugging it, smacking it or just playing randomly in the Menu screen. Oh no, those days are well gone, and disasters resulting thereof have been chalked up to experience. Our DVD player’s warp core has been damaged, or similar, and I’m waiting for Monkey to come home so he can magic it better. In the meantime I’m typing this, drinking tea and taking perverse pleasure in listening to the travel news. Mwahaha no tube travel for me, oh no. (No money, you see.)

If I hear “Broken Strings” by James Morrison and Nelly Furtado on the radio one more time, either me or the Freeview box is going out the window. Argh! Shut! Up!

Watching the Wheels

The rain is falling in London town, the wind is blowing, the air is cold and all of this is perfect pathetic fallacy for my state of mind.

The television industry is in a death spiral, I am told. Certainly it seems likely that there will be no work winging its way to me now until the commissioning editors get their 59p budgets at the start of April to make the three new programmes which will be made in 2009.

At the start of last week, I was very positive, mainly because I was on holiday in Slovenia and it was lovely (albeit bloody freezing), and partly because last week was my first week of freedom from my previous series. But I have now begun to feel a sneaking despair. The cause for this despair is best illustrated by my top 5 activities for this week:

1) Guitar Hero 3
Hours of playing this wretched game and I still can't do a song on Hard. To add to frustration, I can't get 100% on Knights of Cydonia on Easy. None of this makes sense if you haven't experienced the fury of shaking the guitar like a fiend to get star power, only to drop a note with a soul-shattering clang.

2) Twitter-izing self by force: looking to Fry and Webb for example
Have attempted to get into Twitter, which I'm still of the opinion that it is largely a waste of time (this could be because I'm not doing or thinking anything which rises above the level of Crashingly Dull). I still find myself pondering "why?" Do I care that Stephen Fry has just gone to bed in Bali? Well, no, not really. Of course, my own Twittering would be: "Watching Ballykissangel on ITV3 - James Nesbitt is the evil husband who steals Assumpta from Father Peter!" I didn't actually tweet that, but I swear to God it was the most interesting thing I learned all week. Compared to that, Stephen Fry's adventures are far more interesting, as was Robert Webb's entertainingly outraged reaction to Zoe Williams' article in the Guardian. Zoe Williams has been in a death match with Lucy Mangan for years on the paper vying for position of most vacuous and soporific columnist, though Zoe has the edge on unfocused rage and uncomprehensible leaps of logic. This particular column, notable for having no real point, as well as making no real points in pursuit of whatever original aim she lost along the way, seemed to have the thesis that David Mitchell is in some way destroying Radio 4 but hosting a moderately entertaining quiz "The Unbelievable Truth" which doesn't have a rigid enough scoring system to satisfy Ms Williams. The fact any quiz on Radio 4 apart from Brain of Britain that has any scoring system at all surprised me. Her argument, such as it was, spun off into total obscurity because part of Mitchell's offence was That Mitchell and Webb Sound was quite funny. Anyway, Robert Webb really went for her and it was not only justified but amusing. I have no idea if he regrets it now, but even if he doesn't I felt it was a salient warning to myself, a Twitter naif and a gobby cow, that discretion is even more key on Twitter than on Facebook. I've had a couple of near-disasters on Facebook that would go nuclear on Twitter. Not! That! I! Have! Anything! To! Say!

3) Searching for free stuff in London, failing
Being unemployed in bad weather is no fun. Parks are a no go. Art galleries and museums are only entertaining for so long. My equally unemployed friend and I spent hours sitting in Cafe Nero at Seven Dials with one coffee each. You cannot sit anywhere inside where you can talk for free. Apart from maybe a station. Or your flat, though frankly I am going to start going crazy if I spend much longer then. It's got to the point I go to my mother's house just in order to stare at a different four walls.

4) Mentally cleaning
I was almost bored enough to clean the flat. Almost, but not quite. Monkey seems to have taken the cue to go back to a "Mad Men"-esque frame of mind where he suddenly no longer seems to feel the need to do basic things like picking up pasta he's dropped on the floor. "You're here all day," grumps my knight in shining armour when this is pointed out. It's annoying, because he's right.

5) Watching television to remind self of outside world
Thank God for ITV3 (Ballykissangel, Heartbeat), ITV4 (The Professionals, The Sweeney). But most worryingly, the fact Lewis and Primeval have come back is amongst the most exciting things to have happened to me all week. Why am I such a fan of ITV suddenly? I have no answers. But it has got to the point that I'm considering a career in the police force. Looks kind of interesting. More interesting than lying on the sofa thinking about jobs I don't have anyway.

Band of Brothers: Can You Feel the Man-Love Tonight

A few months ago, an actor friend of Monkey's revealed he was in Band of Brothers. "Second private from the right, probably," he said. "I think I got shot. Lots of mud and running." I expressed surprise and interest, explained my love for the series and prepared to wax lyrical about my adulation. He looked bored. "Every British male actor who was under 35 was in that thing," he said. And it's true.

Leaving aside this (with all due respect to him, extremely minor spot), you have a positive galaxy of British youths who were on bearings to better things: Simon Pegg, Marc Warren, Jamie Bamber (errr...actually, scrap that. Jamie Bamber was on a bearing to Ultimate Force at the time), James McAvoy (who I swear to God I still confuse with James D'Arcy but as he has done a film with Angelina Jolie it is beside the point whether little old me gets his name right. I do know he's Mr Tumnus!), Tom Hardy (not as well known as the others, but I've seen him starring on stage twice and he's a truly talented actor) and of course Damian Lewis, whose career has recently stalled in the dull Life, but who in Band of Brothers is little short of a star, partly because he wasn't playing a pillock and therefore it was like a reinvention. There are a few other "oooh I know your face!" types also like the guy from Hotel Babylon these days, but who I know from Press Gang.

There are two things that have always predisposed me to like Band of Brothers. The first is that the titles are so long you can put on the DVD, have a shower and make a cup of tea and come back just as it gets going. I remember when it was on TV you always knew you could miss the first 10 minutes and it would still be merely a dramatic montage with stirring music. The second is that it was filmed down the road from where we briefly lived at the time and my brothers and I would spy through the fence at the site. You could see very clearly a set that at that point everyone knew was a "shelled French village" (someone must have got that from a crew member, because this description was exact amongst the kids). I think the bit of Shelled French Village I remember seeing was probably Carentan, actually, but I may be wrong about that. I also don't recall if it was Band of Brothers or one of the Bonds where they got in trouble by setting off a massive explosion without warning and the population of Hertfordshire hid under their sofas quaking while imagining battalions of Equity members storming the county with fixed bayonets.

The series follows the trials and tribulations of the hopelessly inaccurately named Easy Company of the 101st Airborne. Band of Brothers is mildly constrained by being anchored in the vague vicinity of reality, and for this reason characters die frequently and unexpectedly, so it's as well not to grow too attached to them (it is similar to The Bill in this respect). Putting names to faces is all but impossible, even after you've seen it a million times. Even differentiating the faces can be tricky, since according to the series Easy Company was little short of a beauty contest for the conventionally attractive.

Now, I don't much like action or war films. I certainly didn't like Saving Private Ryan, which is Band of Brothers' illegitimate father. So why do I not only like Band of Brothers, but have a copy of the DVD, which I treasure? It's quite simple, really. As a television series, it's close to faultless. Oh, sure, the wimmin (when they turn up) have been waiting their whole lives to lay the Americans, the Germans are aquiline and brusque, the British are bumbling idiots. Who cares? Band of Brothers conveys the war through certain eyes: one company of the US Army, and as such it tells us more than any film. You live it with them, even if (like me) you have no clue what the relative sizes of platoons, companies and battalions are.

Well, the difference is the canvas upon which it is writ. It is not like with your The X-Files or The West Wing DVDs, you can't sit there at 11 o'clock with time to watch one episode and think, "I'm going to watch that great episode where so-and-so's legs get shot off", it doesn't really work like that. Band of Brothers only works when watched as a whole, a snapshot of the war with all the inaccuracies you would expect from recalling from first hand experience, as I have forced Monkey to do this weekend. He had previously dipped in and out, and hadn't got the appeal. He gets it now.

They are of course all immensely brave, and of course to a casual British viewer with a jaded sense of humour there is occasion where this reverence for the courage of soldiers becomes pretentious. They say things like, "We're paratroopers. We're meant to be surrounded." They march purposefully into the jaws of death. But, and this is the saving grace, the series doesn't judge those who are not Thor-like gods of war. Those who aren't latter-day Alexander the Greats are treated sympathetically - men out of tune with the situation they find themselves in, but men all the same and not cowards. Equally, it doesn't shy away from the nastier sides: the men fall out with each other, they loot the Germans, they shoot unarmed scared enemy fighters, they get demoted because they drink too much, they are successfully faced-down by scary elderly German ladies. They get trashed at the Eagle's Nest. (I've been to the Eagle's Nest and climbing in Hilter's golden lift was the spookiest moment of my life).

There are also several genuinely moving moments. You feel the horror the first time Easy are confronted with tanks, and the enormous relief when Shermans turn up. I have never physically jumped at a war film until watching the barrage at Bastogne, it is impossible not to flinch. The company liberating a concentration camp, without knowing what a concentration camp is. The celebration of VE Day. The final baseball game where we learn the fate of the real characters (I love that last baseball game, so all-American, yet so many of the actors are British, I have to wonder whether they had to do a "Basics of Baseball" course).

It is magnificient television. And like most magnificient television, it has magnificiently attractive actors. One of the episodes is fantastically told through the eyes of the Company medic, inhibited but gorgeous Doc Roe, who sort of sprang into being whenever anyone howled "MEEEEDIC!" for three or four episodes , but actually turned out to have Feelings too (mostly for a pretty, doomed French nurse). And of course the mildly creepy but head-swimmingly gorgeous Lt Spiers. How about drunken but gorgeous Cpt Nixon? Let us not forget troubled but gorgeous Cpl Liebgott. It's only fair to include the awfully untalented but nevertheless gorgeous Pt Webster. And, presiding over all, gorgeous Major Winters, just busting at the seams with love for all the men, equalled only by the love returned until the whole thing became a huge love-in with everyone filled with a warm glow of loveliness that is most welcome after 10hours of purest hell.

Seriously. Make a weekend of it. If nothing else, it will remind you on Monday morning that your life could be a lot worse.