Somehow, a “series” on TV feels like some kind of intellectual scam – a ring implanted into our mental noses, to drag us along, along, along. I am sick of “series”. Sometimes the best episode is the first. Everything goes down-hill from there.
The first episode is the clamping in of the nose-ring. We even co-operate in the exciting discomfort of an intriguing idea, a new concept, a scary plot. The next episode asserts pull on the rope intended to capture us. Sane people, at that point, should dig in their hooves and not co-operate with being pulled along to slaughter.
Episode One, Series One. Oh God no!
I don’t mind episodes – I like episodes – and even series that have completion of some story within each episode. Where you get to know the main characters who carry on. A story within a story.
What I don’t like is the stuff on Sky (especially) when we find we’re on Episode One, Series Three Million and Twenty Four, and the writers are having a problem holding anything together at all, and I’m out of my mind with boredom.
Mr Furlong will follow a series – to a point – and then he gives up too.
We are two old people with more brains than some!