Several Christmases ago, or it may have been birthdays. Deirdre asked me what I wanted as a present. I replied something with sex and violence, so she bought me the DVD of Series 1 of Game of Thrones. I watched the first two episodes and I really do want to see the rest. Indeed I would like to sit down and watch all eight series, but I just don’t have what it takes to be a binge TV watcher. I wish I had because it would pass these inexorable weeks, and topics completed could be crossed off the ‘to do’ list. I always have that sense that I should be doing something more useful. On TV we keep being offered box sets and encouraged to binge watch. I could go back and catch up on everything I ever missed. I know for a fact that there were several episodes of ‘Muffin the Mule’ I missed in 1954.
Apart from watching rugby internationals I find after a couple of hours of TV restlessness kicks in. We have watched ‘Line of Duty’ and various other cult series, but my emotional resilience quite frankly isn’t up to it. Too much tension late at night is not a good recipe for untroubled sleep and I wake up early outraged at the injustices of last night’s drama. We have been hooked on a number of Nordic Noir thrillers but you can’t eat from a lap tray when you’re trying to read subtitles, anyway, eviscerated corpses mix very poorly with broad bean risotto. And I do wish the cops would sort out their private lives which tend to get in the way of a good plot. I enjoy a good shoot-out as long as it involves lots of baddies falling off roofs and none of the goodies getting hurt. We’ve now got into ‘Killing Eve’ and were three series behind. Catching up on the first series the intention was to see a single episode per evening, but as is the wont of cliff-hangers we always succumb to a second episode. If it comes to the temptation to a third I insist on a half hour comedy as an antidote, something like an old ‘IT Crowd’, ‘Father Ted’ or ‘Friday Night Dinner’. In short my TV taste is supremely shallow.
I’m not a binge reader either, I either fall asleep or my concentration strays to noticing that the fat balls need topping up in the bird feeder and something needs watering. Again, I wish I was. I envy friends who can read whole books in one go, even more those who can remember what they have read. For some, the lockdown is an excellent opportunity to read a whole thriller series: C.J. Sansom, Ann Cleeves, Lee Child. My favourite is Louise Penny. Her Inspector Gamache is a nice chap who doesn’t have affairs, goes home to his very understanding wife in the evenings, doesn’t drink much or do drugs or have dysfunctional children. Similarly, the murders he solves are very wholesome and his murderers respectable and principled people. Their murders are clever, clean and witty.
Bingeing used to be the pursuit of the late teens and early twenties on Friday and Saturday nights in the centres of small towns. Ferocious amounts of alcohol were consumed and returned to the pavements after consumption. Now it is a respectable adult pass-time and a justified strategy for dealing with these barren and unvaried months. It requires the persistence, concentration and time management skills I lack. There is a fear that alcohol consumption has risen and that the birth rate will escalate next year. Having someone else doing our shopping has made us too ashamed to order too much booze or crisps, but the pangs and urges are there.
Maybe writing this blog has been my binge substitute; blog writing a feeble resort for those who can’t binge properly. Another bright warm day climaxes by the pond in our garden with a single gin each which is good for us: no carbohydrates, emotionally restorative and the lemon is part of our five a day. No binge drinking here, all very measured and temperate.
Now I could just murder a pack of Pringles.