I have turned into some kind of crime-drama zombie with eyes only for Gil Grissom. Photograph: Five
It's hard to say when the addiction started. At first, it was just idle curiosity that saw me flicking over to Five for a bit of science-crime mystery. Then, the feeling that if I was going to invest viewing time I really should get to know the characters better. Next thing I know, FiveUS has become a default setting on my telly (and yes, I am probably the only person who has ever uttered those words), and I am some kind of crime-drama zombie with eyes only for Gil Grissom (see above).
Not that I normally bandy this kind of information about. Having a CSI obsession is not, after all, the same as being really into, say, Life on Mars or Heroes. It's like getting really, really into a souped-up version of The Bill, with additional spraying and cotton buds. But it's the small things that count: Sunhill's finest never stride around sending things to "Trace", or reach for the UV light or, even better, the Z-nose. Even the fact that all three CSI series rely on exactly the same formula - enigmatic guy leading the lab, beautiful but formidable woman second-in-command, young and gorgeous CSIs bringing up the rear, and cynical male detective on the side - is not enough to break its spell. Not even David Caruso's. Quite. Ridiculous. Speech patterns. Can detract from its faux-scientific appeal.
And it's not just me. Last year, CSI:Miami was voted the most popular television programme in the whole wide world - although admittedly that was before the current season, which seems to have reached new heights of ridiculousness. (Horatio in Rio? Has anyone seen a more ludicrous episode?). But that doesn't mean my addiction can be allowed to continue. Spending too long in the presence of mutilated bodies and grisly remains cannot be good for even a hardened viewer (and particularly not for someone who refuses to watch horror films. When they found that soap mummy? Eugh).
So how to break the cycle? Tomorrow is September - which means only one thing. The return of Spooks. And not matter how many times Caruso takes off his sunglasses, wrinkles his, erm wrinkles, and does weird half winks at any woman in his vicinity while promising to always protect her, he's never going to be a match for a British spy in a nice bit of Prada. Forget Miami - get me to Vauxhall Bridge.
