When it comes to watching TV we all know the unwritten, unspoken rule. The remote is the property of, and therefore controlled by, the man of the house. It is one of those things where men still exert their fast fading territorial might over wife and family. It is after all only fair for what would a chap do when sport comes on? He has to have the zapper beside him, along with a six pack, so that he can switch channels at whim. No matter that everyone else wants to watch Doc Martin, he has to be able to have his football, rugby or cricket on or, in recent times, that other olde-English game, Baseball.
Yes, yes, yes we invented that too and American football. They are all ours they just get new names to dress them up a bit and the big girls blouses that play the game wear body armour. Real men? Huh! I don’t think so. Mister Bean is tougher.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the remote. It is man’s province so bugger off girls and do not step into the demarcation zone.
Shame no one told my mum. She doesn’t seem to have grasped the fact that it should be me, not her, who makes the monumental decision which channel we are going to watch. But no, however frail she may have grown of late she still holds the remote in her matronly mitt in the way a Rottweiler grips a leg.
Progs are selected by Royal Decree and I, the peasant of the household, the serf to the queen must sit and watch obediently and with minimum of interruptions.
Of course having hold of the channel changer also means having power over the volume - I have spoken of this before so I shall not repeat myself. The new development is this. As ‘Stalin’ has dictated that the channel of choice is 10, that is the looped repeats of every damn detective series ever broadcast, this means that the ads are also repeated over and over and over. Mum doesn’t like many of those adverts.
“They make me upset,” she says pulling a face that could be due to constipation or perhaps is meant to invoke sympathy, “all those campaigns for cancer and heart attacks and dying children. They make me sad.” Her eyes grow large and doleful much like the cat out of Shrek.
So what does she do?
With thumb hovering over the mute button she presses it with gay abandon so what I get to hear is something like this…
“Children are...............there to …......stop….....Meer Kats …....’Oh yes!......For whiter…....Lillets.”
I would challenge her but I fear for life and limb. Perhaps I should borrow those guys body armour?.
all words and art are copyright © of Russell 'C.J' Duffy.To view my books on Amazon/Kindle go here: https://www.amazon.com/author/russellduffy -- For another side of CJ go here: sOMeThiNg For tHE wEeKeND, SiR?