Some people just have picky teas at Christmas. You know the sort of thing. Pickled onions, beetroot, various meat, crisps designed to scoop as much dip as possible, cursory salad that will be ignored apart from sticks of cucumber that have only got into the party by telling the doormen that they are also good at shoveling dip into gobs. I love these kinds of teas.
Very little prep, no cooking unless you have to warm something through. One of my friends uses paper plates, which increases the party feel without having to invite children or a clown. This has also been my recent approach to telly watching. As I write, I’m taking a little time off work – which is bloody lovely. Imagine me jumping up an down on a bed while holding a tub of popcorn like Kevin in Home Alone. Or imagine me eating a flake in the bath, dropping it and chasing it around, catching it in the cup I use to rinse my hair and eating it anyway. Imagine me dozing in front of a fire, still in my nightie, smelling of yesterday. Bliss.
Time off means a scattergun approach to telly, too. When I’m time-limited, I often scale it all down just to the basics – Pointless, Glee and The Walking Dead. The holy trinity. But when I have time on my hands, I’ll dabble in all sorts. My buffet of choice recently has included Splash!. I like Splash!. It’s easy watching and there’s always the chance of an ouchy belly flop, or someone who couldn’t be bothered to get waxed and is letting it all hang out. I’ve popped in and out of Dancing on Ice, too, mostly watching for any more gold from Todd Carty.
To be honest, Phillip Schofield keeps me tuned in anyway. He could present a daft game show about a see-through box and I’d watch it. Oh…
I’ve brought the IQ level up a little with Sherlock. So well written, smart and very funny. Clever enough to make me concentrate and put Twitter down, but not enough to make me dismiss it as “up its own backside” while quietly seething that I didn’t get it.
Sherlock has just the right amount of smugness for me. Beautifully written and acted. Benedict Cumberbatch still makes you love Holmes even though he’s a bit of a tool. And Martin Freeman’s performance saved me from wanting to flatten him while he was faffing for HOURS in The Hobbit.
Recently I even watched a documentary, though it was about men who wear rubber lady suits and then go clubbing with their cracking knockers and creepily still faces. I’m pretty sure that C4’s Secrets of the Living Dolls would have been an eye-openeer even for Cliff Richard.