It appears that I might have a bit of a love hate relationship with the BBC.
On one hand, the treatment of Real-Top-Gear has really toasted my Twiglets, but then, on the other hand, I switch on the tele-box last eve to discover Tim Roth perpetrating some serial-killing, dramatic, witchery before my very eyes.
Now, it’s gotta be said, I love me a good serial killer and, whilst on the surface this isn’t really all that unique because, inexplicably, as a species, humans all seem to find depraved mass murderers fascinating, in my case it’s not because I want to know ‘how they tick’ – I think it’s because, in comparison to the victim of a psychopath, my life looks pretty darned good.
Friend-Kate achieves the same self-satisfaction in the face of Jeremy Kyle guests.
She experiences a huge surge of gratitude for the life she has been given.
She rhapsodises about the joy of having all of her front teeth still in situ; she’ll enthuse on the many benefits she experiences from not having a snaggle-toothed, nicotine stained ‘Ma’ who is currently to be found sharing her council flat with a seventeen year old puff dealer.
DNA test not required.
Friend-Kate remembers who the father was.
Yep, one dose of Jeremy Kyle and Friend-Kate is swaggering around home-making coleslaw like she’s 5 ft tall for the rest of the day.
For me, it’s seeing dismembered corpses dragged out of dumpsters.
Thus far, I haven’t been found in any of those bin liners and, given the shenanigans I am habitually a party to, I’m not ashamed to tell you, I take my celebratory high-fives where I can get them.
But, I digress, back to the shenanigans of the BBC.
The set of 10 Rillington Place is a nuance laden work of art; the peeling wallpaper and dim lighting provide a visual manifestation of Christie’s internal landscape and the largely absent appearance of any actual violence, despite our all knowing what the spots of blood mean, is both subtle and powerful.
Having said that, when I announce that we all know what the blood means, it just occurred to me that maybe we all don’t know what the blood means so, if you’re still wondering if there’s a cunning plot twist and in fact it’s Mrs Christie that’s done the blag:
Anyway, I’m enthralled.
Good job BBC.
I will be cross-legged in front of the tele-box for next Tuesday’s instalment and I might even go out on a limb here and officially declare that, the excited anticipation of episode two, might just about be enough to act as a distraction from my traditional ‘Shit-Is-It-Really-Only-A-Fortnight-Away’ Black Friday internet shopping searches.
Nobody seems to have any of those ‘Seven-Days-And-You-Die’ videos in stock anyway.