I seem to have been absent-mindedly staring at the patch just above the TV for a few weeks now. The apparently compelling space where the paint isn’t even in the process of drying has been occupying most of my attention, while sounds and moving shapes – some louder and brighter than others – emit from the large shiny rectangle beneath, occasionally interrupted by an inquiry asking whether I’m still watching. And my answer is yes … sort of.
It’s been hard to concentrate on the truly challenging stuff, and by “challenging”, I mean anything with more than one very straight-lined plot, or something that deviates from the kind of show where I can still tell what’s going on even after I’ve zoned out for a few moments, having been distracted by dropping half a tea-soaked digestive down my front.
As much as I usually feel the need to shower after watching Saturday night ITV (a useful prompt at the moment, frankly), I’m suddenly finding Ninja Warrior UK strangely watchable. It could be the combination of swimming pools, baying crowds standing close to each other, and a commentary insinuating that any of this actually matters. More worryingly, however, it could be that I miss those guys at the gym more than I thought – the ones who gurn, say “bro” with a straight face, and pose in the mirror with their phones. Either way, this is an easy watch, especially with a glass of wine, a bowl of crisps, looking at these ripped desperados, and asking yourself, “Who’s really winning?” (It’s them.)
It’s the easy telly, or things I have seen before – bringing me back to the relative comfort of my youth, or the relative comfort of, y’know, around three months ago. Shortly before lockdown, I had spied old Channel 4 hangover favourite The OC lurking on Amazon Prime, under the category, and I shit you not, “Could this BE more nostalgic?’” In due time, I managed to get past this initial hurdle, and the sun-kissed melodramas of Seth (more annoying than I remember), Ryan – who appears to wear a choker for the first season to let you know he’s from the WrongSideOfTheTracks™; Marissa (much more annoying than I remember) and Sandy Cohen’s eyebrows have returned me to a simpler time of the Killers being cutting edge and Original Penguin clothing not being something Tim Lovejoy wears.
This level of comfort is only otherwise reserved for watching clips of The Big Breakfast on YouTube. There’s an especially pleasing one of Chris Evans getting hit square in the face by a snowball and storming off, but reliving Get Your Nobbly Nuts Out, and Zig and Zag in the bathroom gives me the kind of Proustian rush that not even Sandy Cohen’s eyebrows can equal.
If I find myself missing actual relationships and need to be reminded that human interaction is not all it’s cracked up to be, then Judd Apatow’s Love on Netflix does the job. The deeply flawed protagonists prompt me to wince, recoil and grimace my way through three seasons of very watchable episodes, making me happy that the new normal will no longer require me to build the kind of life that adults built in the beforetimes (career, relationship, hope, etc). Instead, I can breathe a sigh of relief, happily snuffing it at my laptop way beyond current retirement age, in the middle of typing my 20th “just following up” of the day, while watching Johnny Vaughan dressed as a vicar.
An honourable mention goes to what, aside from watching Boris Johnson murder oratory in front of an entire nation, is the only linear TV I’ve watched this entire time. Antiviral Wipe summed up the last few months in a more astute, objective and funny way than any news programme or talking head has managed so far. Please do another one, otherwise I’m going to have to start re-watching Dawson’s Creek.
