Don't Worry, It's Not Contagious Through Blogger

I was a bit ill last week. There's no real evidence for this, but it is scientific fact. Nothing life threatening, you will no doubt be extremely disinterested to hear, but enough to make me steadfastly refuse to lift my lazy head from my lazy bed apart from to feebly croak apologies to my boss (through a mobile phone, I hasten to add, he wasn't in the bed with me. Although, that might have worked too). And 'twas all well and good, as it did give me the chance to experience those rather nice, slightly feverish and surreal mind-ramblings that accompany minor poorlyness. At one point, probably sometime between Diagnosis Murder and the third episode of Scrubs (just how many channels is that show on?! At last count, 14 million) I realised I had been rubbing my face on my duvet continuously for two hours like some maniacal cat because my brain was only capable of this train of thought: "soft...soft...soft...soft...Oh, Zach Braff, you're so irritatingly loveable!...soft...soft..."

Thankfully, I had recovered by the next day, which was lucky, because I was dangerously close to throwing my 40kg TV out of the window in a furious, righteous rage fuelled by loan and credit agreement adverts. Also, I had run out of soup.

So anyway, these are some things I have learnt from watching the TV in the last week:

1. I have worked out what Louis Theroux's trick is. In order to extract the most tortuously personal innermost feelings from his cast of whack-jobs, he just stares at them exactly like he's about to passionately kiss them. You know that really intense eyeballing that always happens in schlocky romcoms between people who totally-shouldn't-be-kissing-each-other-but-totally-will-be-in-about-three-seconds? He does that, to everyone. Then the victims get so flustered by this foppish giant looming over them, so panicky that they are about to get swept up in a sticky embrace accompanied by a flourish of strings on their internal soundtrack, that they blurt out whatever he wants to hear. Just to make him back off. Back off, Theroux!
2. The peerless Life on Mars, in which Gene Hunt has become not only my favourite man on the TV, but now my favourite man ever. Bizarrely, I think I'd quite like him to be my dad, which really doesn't suggest fabulous things for my personality. Anyway, here's my theories on just what the heckfire is going on: A) The new DCI is also a man from the future in a coma; possibly, if the writers have been watching The Cell, deliberately so, in a way to try and contact Sam. If I see a really freaky segmented horse, or J-Lo, I'll know what they're up to. B) Sam has to kill Gene Hunt (noooo!!!) because Gene Hunt is the one wot run him over in the first place, in some kind of horrible karmic retribution. Admittedly, I didn't see the first series, so it may already be known who ran him over, in which case I am a ruddy fool. Here's what I really, really, really hope isn't going on: anything, but anything, that will remind me of Quantum Leap. No quests to change the future, no suggestion he is not Sam Tyler at all (Sam! See, he's even called the same thing. Yeesh), no "oh boy", and especially, no Donald Bellisario.
3. I couldn't give less of a shit about what is happening to every single person in EastEnders, and yet I still watch it anyway, even though it is just frankly bloody stupid. I just don't know how to stop. And I need some serious help.

Coming up, this Easter: soup replenishment ahoy!