Reasons why I am going stir crazy through watching too much daytime telly

Channel 5 like to confuse viewers with their choice of afternoon B movies (lovingly sponsored by Steradent, no prizes for guessing the target market). For example, today it's a coming-of-age drama, which randomly features Claire Danes, James Van Der Beek, Julia Stiles and Jude Law, and from the looks of it was cobbled together some time last week as they don't really look much younger. Channel 5 schedulers also like to throw a Columbo at you at irregular intervals; Dick Van Dyke was the killer the other day, doing well through the alcoholic haze.

Asda's advertising dudes need to be taught a lesson about the uses of en masse singing children. They should really only be used for spooky atmospheric effect (cf The Lost Boys, Candyman) and should be at least 90% in tune. It's entirely inappropriate to have kids singing "Falling In Love Again", as it's really only right coming out of the mouth of a lonely, world-weary woman who's fully aware she's shagged loser after loser, knows it's not doing her any good but is resigned to the fact she's about to do it again....she can't help it. Not a children's choir number, unless Gary Glitter's the choirmaster.

Oh, and don't get me started on the ever-increasing number of children/choral groups with heartstring-twanging albums out just in time for Christmas doing the rounds....Angelis, All Angels, Libera (who have an album called Angel Voices). Apparently they're all the "most relaxing/uplifting songs you've ever experienced" or some similar guff, and they're strangely geeky children dressed in polonecks and/or chunky knitwear - the ads being shots of them interspersed with clips of what look like hospital corridors and people running toward each other or looking wistfully as someone walks away. Basically, songs to play at family funerals and to remind you of your dead father/child/brother/husband. So, the "You Raise Me Up" factor cranked right up to the Nth degree. Bah. Cynical old Simon Cowell (or, possibly, cynical old Me).

Pocoyo is unhealthily addictive and should possibly be banned, as I find myself shouting at Stephen Fry when he's being obtuse (surely his knighthood is on the way - I frequently have to stop myself from adding 'Sir' to the beginning of his name).

I just shouted at Fearne Cotton for mispronouncing the word "model". It has an L at the end, darling, not a W. Oh bugger, she can't hear me, she's on the telly. If you're hiring someone as a presenter, please ensure they can say all the words in its title.

Someone please put me out of my misery.

Introducing....

....the Right Reverend Doctor Hugo Z. Hackenbush, pictured here attempting to open a betting account with Blue Square (haha, I hid my wallet so he couldn't complete the deed).

Breaking the silence

I have been quiet haven’t I? I’ve got all kinds of excuses lined up. I was sucked into a black hole of question-setting. I was applying and interviewing for jobs. I was getting a new job, which I start in 10 days. I was worrying about where I’m going to live when I move. I was helping a small cat called Hugo to settle in. I was writing stomach-churning short stories for no good reason. My tux didn’t come back from the cleaners. An old friend came in from out of town. There was an earthquake, a terrible flood, locusts.

It seems like I’ve been busy. Actually, I’ve been a virtual recluse for weeks. I cite lack of money as my reason. I have been forming my routine around daytime TV – getting intimate with Neighbours and Doctors (I love no-brain television) and being disappointed when they’re followed by Murder She Wrote rather than Diagnosis Murder. Still undecided whether I love or hate Loose Women and Paul O’Grady. Multi-tasking crap telly with looking at crap websites continually, when I should be doing useful stuff.

I see there’s a drama on this evening about law students fighting for justice. Maybe I can sit and point out the irritating inaccuracies/improbabilities in that, before going to watch Starter for Ten and doing the same, but in a manner more annoying to the paying audience. Wow, the height of my ambitions is getting on my high horse in a middle-aged manner. Hope my life gets more exciting soon.