My TV, pt 1.

Just a few idle and rambly thoughts on the 180 channels of shit we have to choose from. Timeteam is one of my all time favourite programmes. What could be better than being lulled into a Sunday afternoon somnolence as you watch a bunch of people grubbing around in a different piece of dirt every episode, interspersed with the odd moment of electric tension as you refocus your heterosexual gaze when Phil's cut off jeans hove into view? Then there are the ongoing sagas, such as wondering which limb Mick Aston will have a cast on and if he will ever buy a new jumper, if Tony's infectiously bouyant personality will be categorised as a class b substance and we'll see him hauled off in a zip lock bag by the drug squad or somebody will turn green and duck out of camera shot after they take a mouthful of whatever long dead dish is recreated.

I do have some gripes though, like the recent attempts to sex up the show with lingering cleavage shots of dumpy diggers and the celeb guests with the exception of that shartorsed Danish lesbian (who I normally can't stand-but just she seemed so right alongside old Tony). WE DON'T NEED IT FOLKS! Timeteam doesn't need to tillitate anything other than our need to see you dig up something bigger than a Pike tooth, and anyway Dr Jenni Butterworth supplied all the lust interest you could possibly need on such an ostensibly cerebral show, she was good looking-in a geeky kinda way, incredibly bright with a decent chassis that she was too classy to flash topped off with a delightfully fragile voice that would fill any redblooded male with the desire to drag her off to the nearest cave, stand her on a flint knapped pedestal and grunt loudly while waving a big stick at anyone who came too close.

I was really bored one afternoon and stopped on Remcon Raiders, the track effects make Robotwars look like a Hollywood masterpiece, the commentator corpses at every turn but the after race interviews are fricken hilarious.. you get these guys who obviously spend every spare minute tinkering with minute carburetors in the garden shed or looking for empty supermarket carparks being interviewed by some increbidly inviting cleavage/navel tag teams, there wasn't much else to the gals besides their charms but I guess they'd constitute chav royalty what with the lack of stretch marks and ankle tags. Unable to look the lasses in the eyes, and too cawordly to look at anything else, they stare studiously at their toes or the middle distance as they mumble replies to the overly effervescent enquiries, the torture is palpable and the best part of the show...