TOM JACKSON
As I always say at this time of year, it may
be the absolute depths of winter, some days
barely bothering to get light at all, but at
least there’s a new series of Death in Paradise
under way. With Death in Paradise, the very
definition of so bad it’s good, back on our
screens for January and February, life
won’t be all bad. It’s a bit like the Six Nations,
only a month earlier: DinP, as we call it
in my house, starts in midwinter, but by the
time it’s over, spring is around the corner.
And in the intervening weeks, you’ve been
royally entertained.
I don’t mind admitting I fancy Catherine
Bourdey, the restaurant owner and mayoress.
And Detective Sergeant Florence Cassell. And
now this new sergeant, Naomi Thomas. I don’t
fancy the commissioner, played by the great
Don Warrington of Rising Damp fame, but I do
love him all the same. When we play “Which
character are you in DinP?”, my wife and kids
agree I’m the commissioner. He’s a fat, lazy,
pompous snob, but hey, they mean it nicely.
It’s not pervy to fancy Catherine, by the
way: she’s 65, 7 years my senior. Florence
is 36, so she’s just about acceptable too.
Naomi is 28, so yeah, fair enough, that’s less
than half my age. That’s getting creepy. My bad.
They’re kept busy in the Saint Marie force.
The homicide rate is shocking, worse than
Medellín at the height of the cartel wars. If you
live on or visit Saint Marie, you’ve got a one in
five chance of getting topped and a one in five
chance of being put away for murder. Forty per
cent of the island’s population is either getting
murdered or doing the murdering. It’s carnage.
Talking of Rising Damp, I’ve been watching
some shows from the golden age of British
sitcoms on iPlayer and YouTube. Porridge
stands the test of time, thanks to the genius
of Ronnie Barker, whom Laurence Olivier
once said was the best actor in Britain. Fawlty
Towers, I found to my surprise, has dated
terribly, or maybe I’m biased because John
Cleese turned out to be such an arse. Yes,
Minister is perfection. Mind Your Language
is astonishingly racist, with not one but two
subcontinental characters (a Muslim and a
Sikh) who both waggle their heads, clasp their
hands together and offer ingratiating smiles and
“a thousand apologies, my goodness me, yes”.
References to “poofs” and “fairies” are
rampant. When people moan now about
wokery and political correctness, they
should imagine what it must have been
like as a kid growing up in the Seventies,realising you were gay and then settling down
with the family to an evening of casually
offensive homophobic disparagement in the
guise of light entertainment.
Back in the more enlightened 2020s,
we snuggle down for a serious Emily in
Paris season two binge. There’s been some
competition in the office over who can log
the greediest EinP session. All ten episodes
were released just before Christmas. We
inhaled them in three nights: a batch of
four, then a five, then, fighting to stay awake,
showing a modicum of self-discipline, we saved
the season finale for the next evening. That
meant ditching Sam, who was out.
“You’ve snaked me on Emily in Paris!”
he stormed when he came in from the
cinema and learnt the extent of his loved
ones’ treachery.
That’s the trouble watching series with
my Sam and Rachel: they have an annoying
tendency to not be in the house quite
frequently. Sometimes (Ozark, Fauda, The
Bureau, Succession) we have to be ruthless
and bin them. It helps that they have higher
standards than we do: we watched five
episodes of The Tourist, which started
promisingly and got worse, together. The
children didn’t bother watching the sixth
and final part. No stamina.
The other problem with all four of us
in front of the telly is the multiplication
of bickering. Luckily, the seating/sprawling
positions never vary: my wife in the best
position on the left of the sofa; me in the
third best at the other end; daughter Rachel
in the second best in the middle; son Sam
on a beanbag on the floor. He’s banned from
the sofa because he jiggles. Even Tiger the cat
has a better view of the telly than Sam.
The arguments arise over cats in or cats
out, lights on or off, cushions, footstools, which
remote control to use to find which show
on which service, volume control (Sam went
through an OCD phase of it having to be
on an even number; Rachel naturally always
made sure it wasn’t), subtitles, snacks, drinks,
smart-alec plot predictions, footnotes on
what other shows an actor has been in, etc.
I’d say on an average TV night the ratio of
minutes viewing to minutes on pause while
squabbles break out is about one to one.
Still, these long dark winter nights, you’ve
got to pass the time somehow. n[email protected]Death in Paradise?
Admit it, you love it
too. It’s the one
thing that gets me
through the dark
nights of January
Beta male
Robert Crampton
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