The Weekend Cookery Show
Deathless celebration of all things banter, forged in vinaigrette and molten moccasin
Hours of: Scallops in chino runoff. Steak in Lynx Sport Blast® reduction. Tim Lovejoy in distressed chambray, saying “yeah” across a hauntingly narrow kitchen at other uneasy men in distressed chambray, all of whom are nodding and folding their arms and rocking with mirthless laughter and saying “yeah”, because Jerusalem artichokes? What is that all about then? Yeah?
Yeah?
“Yeah”.
See: Saturday Kitchen, Sunday Brunch, Saturday Morning With James Martin
The Costume Romp
‘Alack, sir, I fear thy integrity is in peril, for thou hast surely mistaken thy buttocks for thy script’
Hours of: Buttocks. Priapic jackanapes prithee-ing around in peephole codpieces. Grade II-listed mummers ducking for cover as the plot catapults another flaming ball of tits at the wainscoting. Rudimentary attempts at historical accuracy drowned out by budgetary bluster, clanging anachronisms and unnerving preoccupation with heritage hardbodies that, verily, doth turn even the most grandiose venture into Hollycloaks.
See: Versailles, The Tudors, The Borgias
The Consumer Rights Programme
The nexus of nimbyism. Rantzenesque totem for the terminally naffed-off. Brexit’s patient zero
Hours of: Shouting through letterboxes. Spluttering over small print. Pensioners on pleather sofas saying: “He said he’d fit the toilet himself,” over stock footage of an exploding campervan. Dominic Littlewood bellowing about gazebos as he chases a pixelated endomorph across the same endlessly looped stretch of derelict industrial estate. Menacing exhortations to know your rights lest the heavens split asunder and ye be cast into the eternal fire of implied warranty (Hotpoint 3:16-17).
See: Watchdog, Rip Off Britain, Don’t Get Done, Get Dom
The Cosy Detective Series
‘Do hurry up with the darjeeling, Valerie, Nigel Havers is being bludgeoned to death with a scone’
Hours of: Bunting. Wide-fitting loafers. The honeyed peal of garden implement against Home Counties skull. A misty-monocled yearning for a time before the impertinences of modern-day drama; a time of corniced accents and iced-sponge scripts, of golden retrievers in padded gilets upbraiding menials on gravel driveways, a time when one could buy a blunderbuss for a guinea and still have change for a quarter-bag of Subplot Incest®. And, of course, no immigrants to spoil the views. Marvellous.
See: Midsomer Murders, Agatha Christie’s Marple, Father Brown
Available to watch now and ad infinitum
