Sunday Methadone Television

by

Last of the Summer Wine 

It’s an unholy trinity that stretches back to the moment of creation. From the dawn of time there has been one television constant that NEVER changes … and never will. As the weekend putters out and you realise that work or school are the price you’ll soon be paying for your fun, this trilogy of programmes hammers the point home. They are Britain’s weekend full-stop – a televisual “That’s yer lot!” helpfully supplied by the BBC to emphasise that the time for frivolity is over. They are, of course, Songs of Praise, Last of the Summer Wine, and The Antiques Roadshow …. uuuuuuuuur.

For the benefit of foreigners and the 2% of the population that hasn’t seen these shows (and how you’ve managed to escape frankly beggars belief), a brief explanation of their singular characteristics is necessary. Songs of Praise is a Christian sing-a-long show where liars who haven’t been in a church since they got married forty years ago show up to sing Nearer My God To Thee for the cameras. Presented by Aled Jones, a grinning goodie two shoes, Songs of Praise follows a formula written in stone – hymn, prayer, hymn, sermon, outside report, hymn, prayer, Aled Jones solo, hymn, hymn, hymn, the end.

The Antiques Roadshow is the well-deserved sit down and nice cup of tea of British television. Members of the public gather at a lovely country house or interesting municipal building and have the antiques they’ve brought along valued by a team of experts. The show’s formula is written in stone – quite expensive antique, cheap tat, antique, tat, gun, antique, antique, tat, antique, haughty woman who thought vase was priceless gets comeuppance, antique, tat, jumble sale purchase turns out to be worth more than GDP of Tanzania, the end.

Last of the Summer Wine is the bitter pill you have to swallow to atone for the sins of having fun, having sex, having a wank … whatever it was you did on Saturday that you must now be punished for. It is a situation comedy that centres around a collection of Northern stereotypes doing stuff in a picturesque village in the Peaks. The show’s formula is written in stone – three old men sit on bench and observe minor character doing something which they will inevitably join in with, four old women congregate to discuss what idiots men are, the three old men join in with whatever the minor character was doing, the old women continue to gossip, an old woman tries ripping off a customer in her shop full of litter and rags, Howard’s plans to put mangy old tart Marina to the sword are foiled once again, one of the old men slides down hill in a bath, the end.

The formula never changes. It never has. Recently unearthed cave paintings in Southern France depict three old men on a hillside, one of whom is sliding down it in a bath. Hieroglyphics on the walls of the Great Pyramid at Gizeh speak of a line of slaves, dutifully queuing up to have their rice bowls valued by the Pharoah. It is said that what did for King Edward II was not a red-hot poker up the arse, but a surfeit of hymns on a Sunday afternoon that caused his inner organs to relax to the point they ceased to work. T’was ever thus, t’will ever be.

As the dying sun consumes the inner planets and Earth is consigned to a footnote in the history of the cosmos, the last words that will escape into the stars will be “Two thousand pounds? As much as that? I’d better get onto the insurance company.”

You don’t actually have to watch these shows to know how they’ll go. The formula for each is so imprinted in your mind that you can, in fact, miss them entirely and still think you’ve watched them. This is a particularly British trick. “How was your Sunday?” someone will ask. “Oh, you know,” you’ll reply, “Songs of Praise, Antiques Roadshow, Last of the Summer Wine, suicide attempt, bed … the usual.” But the thing is, your Sunday contained none of these shows. You din’t see them, you just assume you did. It’s Sunday therefore, ergo, Songs of Praise, Antiques Roadshow, Last of the Summer Wine have been watched … haven’t they? You know them so well that, even if you’ve not seen them in twenty years, a niggling trick of the mind makes you think you’ve watched them every Sunday since the dawn of man. “Well I certainly have a memory of an old man going hell-for-leather down a hill in a bath, so I must have watched it,” you reason.

They are the only shows in the history of the world that do not need to be watched to be watched.

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35 Responses to “Sunday Methadone Television”

  1. Swineshead Says:

    Imagine Howard and Marina doing it. Imagine all that pent up sexual aggression after 30 odd years of not being able to get it on, constantly thwarted by Howard’s battleaxe wife.

  2. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    This week Howard acquired a car so he could ‘do’ Marina in the back seat (needless to say the plan went tits-up). I commented that he was probably going to do Marina up the arse causing a massive rectal prolapse that would cover Howard in flues of antique Marina shit. The missus came close to throwing up.

  3. piqued Says:

    That’s nothing to what those priests get up to in Songs of Praise, put it this way, Chris Langham watches it religiously

  4. Swineshead Says:

    Apparently Langham was looking at ‘Type 5’ child material… I didn’t realise they graded it. Is ‘Type 1’ just a picture of a winking child?

  5. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    STRING ‘EM UP!

  6. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    Clegg and Howard going twos-up on Marina. Clegg up her arse whilst Howard spunks all over her big flabby udders. I’d pay at least £3.47 to see that (if they threw in a drink).

  7. Clarys Says:

    I didn’t think Last of the Summer Wine had been on for aaaaaages? I must be mistaken, I avoid that Sunday night trilogy like the plague, so I try not to pay attention to them too much.

  8. piqued Says:

    I fucking HATE Last of the Summer Wine, the theme tune alone is enough to warrent hanging oneself with a dressing gown cord

  9. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    That’s because you deserve to be punished. We all do. we must atone for the sins we have committed by watching Clegg’s discomfort at life in general.

    Clarys – you may avoid this devillish triumvirate, but it does not avoid you. You watch it anyway … in your mind.

  10. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    u fuckn ppl r all cuntz!! lst ov da smmer wine is da bst so fck u u fckn wnkrs. u prolablee wnk in ur hnd then drnk the spnk u fucken c8untzzzzz

  11. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    Piqued is feeling super-fine
    He’s just seen Last of the Summer Wine
    He had to laugh
    When they got in the bath
    He finds the humour divine

  12. piqued Says:

    Napoleon is feeling sated too
    After watching the Jesus crew
    He joined along to all the hymns
    (And rammed his bell-end full o’pins)

  13. Swineshead Says:

    Can we work harder
    On our verse from hereon in
    Haiku’s the best way

  14. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    Piqued once dated a dancer
    Into his heart she crept
    But then she went and got cancer
    So he smothered her while she slept

    When she was dead he got working
    On his diabolical plan
    To use the corpse for sex purposes
    He’s a thoroughly rotten man

  15. piqued Says:

    Swineshead is in the rub a dub
    (a cockney phrase that pertians to ‘pub’)
    He’s drinking neat whisky in a right old state
    Sandon undervalued an Imari fluted-plate

  16. Swineshead Says:

    wat da fuk u lot takin bout i seen LOTSW it waz shits bring bak TPOLAAPOC

  17. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    LOTSW is the fucckin bs6t u fuckkinm shthse TPOLAAPOC hs nuthin on LOTSW it iz fuckin brilll!!!! fuck u all u cntzzzzz

  18. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    Fucking disgraceful! I was walking behind this ‘orrible old man wot lives up our road and the bastard let out a flappy wet fart that went on for AGES. Didn’t even look round or anything … filthy old git.

  19. piqued Says:

    Napolean at the bus stop
    Has cock all hanging out
    And sperms all over his trousers
    When a little girl does shout…

    ‘Mummy I see that mans dickie
    and all the spunk as well
    I wouldn’t mind so much, mummy
    If it wasn’t for the fucking smell’

  20. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    If you’d payed attention
    You’d know the stench is medical
    I’ll see you in detention
    You big fat hairy testicle

  21. piqued Says:

    You can’t speak to me like that
    I’m a paying student
    I’ll have a word with your Principle
    You, Sir, are very rude (ent)

  22. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    ‘Rudent’? What the fuck?
    That’s not a word
    Your rhyming skills suck
    Back of the class, turd

  23. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    There once lived a poncey young cunt
    Called Piqued – the man was a runt
    He liked other men’s cocks
    Liked jizz up his box
    His life was a thirsty spunk-hunt

  24. Badger Madge Says:

    i don’t usually understand what you guys are on about here, but these take the biscuit (where does that phrase come from by the way?)

  25. piqued Says:

    Whilst spying on ladies jogging
    Napoleon desires a good flogging
    With no access to leather
    He waits in the heather
    By the car park to watch wankers dogging

  26. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    Right, I’ve had enough of this now. Needless to say, I’m great and Piqued stinks. I thank you and that’s the end of that!

  27. proudfoot Says:

    I was enjoying that.

    More! more! more!

  28. wally bazoom Says:

    Napolean, weren’t you saying something the other day regarding fish and barrels?

  29. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    Indeed I was Wally, indeed I was. And, if Swineshead had not decided to publish this halfway through me writing it you would have been able to read the part where I conclude that there is no point criticising these shows, that they are a rite of passage of such dreadfulness that no child should be allowed to escape them, and that to get rid of them would be like knocking down Stonehenge or Westminster Abbey.

    Unfortunately, WordPress saves things as you write them, and if Swinehead decides to publish all the stuff you write after will not save as he’s the only one with administrator rights. It happened a while back when I wrote a thing about Desperate Housewives and it turned into a one paragraph dirty joke (as opposed to a three paragraph dirty joke). Hey-ho.

  30. piqued Says:

    Sir,

    I act as a lawyer for The Ramones and I refer to your post of 7/8/07 at 10.46 where you use the words ‘Hey-Ho’

    ‘Hey-ho’ is the property of The Ramones ltd, so ‘let’s-go’ to court where you’ll be sued for £££££££££££££ before being bummed to death by Julian Clary

    Good day

  31. Swineshead Says:

    Napoleon – a little suggestion – write your article elsewhere then cut and paste it. You didn’t tell me that was happening… next time I’ll just wait for you to tell me. I blame WordPress – there’s no alert when a new post is finished.

    Feel free to finish it off. Like Batty giving Compo a happy finish.

  32. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    I did finish it off – on WordPress. When I pressed ‘save’ it deleted it because I don’t have administrator rights … I was fucked if I was writing it out again. And luckily, this version makes sense anyway.

  33. Swineshead Says:

    Brush up on yr IT skilz, grndd.

  34. Napoleon Cockaparte Says:

    Bugger off … I’m trying to work out how you record a programme on this bloody VCR and I’m running out of time – Countdown’s on at four.

  35. piqued Says:

    hay hey cum on u guyz. tym out yeah cum on

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