I’ve been watching too much TV lately: the lazy consequence of my tardy conversion from five channel analogue philistinism to willpower-sapping digital Freeview, which, despite the relative proportion of dross remaining pretty constant, does bring an increase of available actual good stuff (well, sometimes, among all those un-available extra channels that aren’t actually free ). This also provides for exercise of the coloured option buttons, so I can dance around the various re-runs of The Olympics coverage, not just for the sports I want to watch, but so as best to avoid those presenters and interviewers who irritate, but which does involve prolonged periods of keeping the remote control to hand, turning me into the couch-type I was always determined not to become. And I stay up until 3-30 am to watch the irrepressible and foolhardy Paula Radcliffe not win (which I salute her for, because isn’t it boring when you know who will win? I mean what’s the point of that? I prefer my heroes with flaws). And the likelihood is there will be a good film on late, and I’ll find it hard to resist staying up. Consequently, the body clock gets knocked out of kilter, and things don’t get done, such as emptying the bin, wherein something is going on that would have had Thomas Hunt Morgan running round with a net.
I also indulge my innate slothfulness with the More4 double-bill repeats of Father Ted, which, like all the best comedy, never stales. But it was me preaching to a friend the other day my opinion of soap operas; how they are axiomatic of society’s intellectual stuntedness. (Where’s the remote? On my soapbox.) But then, I enjoy the Fiver double/triple bill repeats of Sex and the City, which is, I guess, a soap opera of sorts, featuring a group of thirty-something, liberal, lunching, retifistic lady characters, three of whom I actually dislike, and, as such, I wouldn’t really enjoy this party, were it not gingered up. (I haven’t, however, seen the film; I’ll wait for it to be premiered on Film4_.) I read somewhere recently that Carrie Bradshaw can be considered as iconic a literary figure as Elizabeth Bennett, a statement that is nonsense on several levels, but which immediately conjures up my mind’s image of one of my favourite literary characters as personified wonderfully by the pulchritudinous Jennifer Ehlepage.shtml (… . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . …oh, sorry, where was I?), who has recently been re-seen in the More4 repeat of The Camomile Lawn (… . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . …).
But back to now, and Dawkins on Darwin on Channel 4 last night, something which people ought to be more aware of, instead of soap operas, celebrity culture and the like. So I really should practice what I preach and be planning experiments and nailing that draft, instead of blogging on about Sex and the City, for pity’s sake! Hmmm, hold on a minute there… what about ‘Sex and the Lab’_? Green fluorescence on the (carnal) knowledge acquisition endeavours of four scientific characters: say, student, two postdocs, lecturer; with occasional guest appearances of those who are only there occasionally, such as professors and parturient Lab Managers. Imagine the possibilities. All seven deadly sins applied. Sex and science can be a wonderful combination, and why should we let the marketeers exploit it all? Well, it couldn’t be any worse than this half-plucked turkeyrats/, could it? I reckon it wouldn’t do any harm, unless….