Quite apart
from enjoying the obvious fruits that University has to bear, one perdurable
positive about the student lifestyle is, irrevocably and as well as countless
others, the opportunity afforded to me to be able to watch whatever films and
television programmes I choose to. Even writing that down it sounds sad, but
sadly for me it is something that has mutated itself to be rather more
important to me than I would have at first given it credit for over the course
of the first year. It’s only a very small thing I grant you, but frankly never
has it shown its importance more than the way in which it did this weekend.
Firstly, allow me just engage you in a
small amount of scene-setting for those not currently aware of my family
arrangement, it’s really not that hard to understand so stick with it. When I’m
not at University I live with my Mum, Dad and two younger sisters, (avec the
Cat, the Dog and two Guinea Pigs all of which are not strictly, if in any way
relevant here). With two younger sisters especially, you can probably imagine
the amount of remote control turf-wars that occur on a daily basis, a living
room Civil-War if you will. Sometimes, and I stress only sometimes, I will win
and the television will play host to some top quality broadcasting of my
choice, and sometimes Road Wars.
On the other occasions, I am sad to
say, I lose. Mainly, I must add, this comes as a result of one or both of my
sisters appealing to Mum and Dad for help. Well, I say help, I mean “Muuuuum.
Daaaaaad. Tell Greg to change the channel.” Trust me; it’s not worth fighting
against that, even if you have the time of effort to spare. On these occasions,
the television is subjected to a veritable plethora of bum-dribble, the likes
of which, I fear, has never been seen (or at least has never been subjected to
one human being in one sitting). I talk of course of television ‘talent’ shows.
Now, it is that this fitting juncture
where the point (yes there is a point) of this article comes into play. This
weekend I returned home to witness my beloved Manchester City scrape through
victorious to lift the Premier League trophy. Quite apart from the fact that I
feel that I’ve aged about thirty years over the course of the weekend, my
throat is now pretty much non-existent and my heart feels like it could give
way any second (although that’s probably as a result of my ‘diet’), that side
of my weekend activities probably deserves its own article, alas another story
for another time. No, back to the point. This weekend was the final of Britain’s Got Talent. Now normally,
living at home, I would know, or at least be aware of, every act in the final.
Unashamedly, this would be the result of twitter around the house and other
advertised plugs on the television. However, this time around I knew absolutely
nothing, and it felt fantastic.
Living at University meant that I was
completely sheltered from the shower of crap that was going on on television. I
literally was not in any way aware that Britain’s
Got Talent was on, because I had never been subjected to it. During the
course of the first year I have missed two runs of Britain’s Got Talent and one run of the X Factor, all the while I will willingly be watching Horrible Histories, Qi, Never Mind the Buzzcocks, That Mitchell and Webb Look and all
manner of other programmes chosen by me, for me. For years I have wondered what
the secret was for avoiding all mention of these terrible ‘talent’ shows and
other dreadful incarnations of pixels that John Logie Baird would be ashamed
of. Now, finally, I know the secret: go and get a degree.
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