Saturday, 9 August 2008

Kids today don't know they're born. When I were a lad, we had three channels: BBC1, BBC2 and ITV. Mum and Dad didn't let me watch much ITV, as they thought it would be a bad influence. BBC2 operated for 15 minutes a day and showed Open University programmes. Even with my precocious intellectual curiosity, it held little attraction. As a result, I lived my life on BBC1. Blue Peter rather than Magpie. And a strange programme which encouraged me to eschew the gogglebox entirely, known as Why don't you switch off your television set and go and do something less boring instead? (The stuff they recommended I do was so compelling that it escapes me entirely now. But I guess it involved making necklaces out of the silver milk bottle tops that birds pecked on your doorstep back in the 70s.)

As I approach 40, I am prepared to make a rather embarrassing, but heartfelt and genuine admission. Television has been a huge part of my life. And although I've grown to love all the new media that overwhelms us today, I truly belong to the TV era. The generations before me were born too early for the small screen to dominate their childhood. The generations behind me see TV as just another element of the communication mix.

But I was there. I saw the first episode of Grange Hill in the 1970s. I got together with friends to watch back-to-back Dallas episodes on VHS in the 80s. And in the 1990s, David Caruso and Emmy-winning Vietnam vet Dennis Franz persuaded me to jump on a plane to New York just through their electric performances in NYPD Blue.

I'd be the first to admit that my collection of 40 TV shows contains a lot of omissions. Steve Bochco's Murder One, for instance. Some cracking Australian soaps, such as Young Doctors and A Country Practice. And, of course, Jim Bowen in Bullseye. But I've tried to span the four decades as best I can. And I've brought together clips and theme tunes from programmes that have brought me particular pleasure. Let's take a trip down memory lane before life truly begins on 1st November.

1 comment:

Fiona said...

This is all well and good. But what about Bergerac, Howard's Way and come, on now, Phyllis, Tenko for crying out loud?

For a young Fi, the island of Jersey meant all glamour, excitement and a life lived at the precipice of danger. It was a while until I realised it was merely a tax haven for nazi collaborators. And no-one in their right mind would leave Whitton for it.