Unfeeling

We’re good at unfeeling. We can switch off and ignore or divert ourselves by putting our fingers in our ears and singing the seventeenth verse of Rule Brittannia.

I wonder what that would be about? Would it sing of new freedoms? The freedom for anyone in the public domain to openly lie or conclude arguments with “get stuffed.” It could sing about the futility and greed of infamy or the value given to ironed foreheads, Thunderbird lips and bleached teeth. Could it be a tribute to the US for being such an excellent role-model?

Already, I’m beginning to unfeel. I’m detaching myself from notions of vanity. Will your beautiful white smile convince me of your sincerity? 

Obviously, such factors can go a long way in building self-assurance, helping you face the more daunting aspects of the world around us. If that’s the case, then do it. Who wants to look like the old Shane McGowan of nicotine fingers and graveyard teeth?

But I’m still unfeeling. This is replacing former notions of anger and indignance. This general sense of indifference has been inspired by media. I watch the TV with my thumb paused over fast-forward or mute.

Have you thought about the adverts being shoved into our faces?

Lloyd’s bank, “by your side.” Oh, they’ve really pushed the boat out here. They are a true friend, ever loyal through our love of black horses on beaches so we won’t mind when they giggle at our loan application or charge us twenty-five pounds for in-branch flatulence. (Or a direct debit refusal.)

Enough to make me throw up

Then some woman walks into a crowded living room shouting:

“Deliveroo!” She takes it upon herself to distribute the take-aways with a comment for everyone. What a control freak.

It’s like Captain Mainwaring giving out the contents of a festive variety biscuit tin. Much to Sergeant Wilson’s annoyance, Corporal Jones would have first choice. He’d go straight for the two gipsy creams. “Don’t say a word, Wilson, he saved me an extra two sausages last week.” Private Walker would be last in the pecking order. He’d pick up the sole arrowroot and say in his chirpy manner: “I can get you another five of those tins if you like.” 

If your family are together, wouldn’t you have a big sit down job? Can you imagine the packaging wreckage? Can you imagine a loud mouth matriarchal beast like that dishing out the veg whilst revealing your innermost secrets?

We went to see my nan in hospital once and she said: “Oh Steve, there are some lovely nurses here for you.” My mum replied, in a loud voice:

“Oh Steve doesn’t like girls!” I had actually kept my affairs away from home. I died in ward 7 of Mill Lane. By ten o’clock that night, it was all around the Nelson. Thanks, brothers. I’m not comparing Mum to that insidious woman in the advert but that’s how I would feel with that sort of crone hovering overhead.

Aren’t all the good souls espousing traditional family values unaffected by the temptations of sinking into the selfish depths of smartphones?

Maybe the family had lunch together and now it’s time for an expression of gastronomic freedom whilst pushing the boundaries of type 2 diabetes. 

The third example leaves me zombified. Now I love Tenable. Warwick Davies has my stupid sort of humour and if the world was bereft of literature, I’d be happy reading a list. Like many regular shows, it has a sponsor. Tenable’s is assistive bathing. These are baths with doors and grab rails. Naturally located in a bathroom the size of a small concert venue, they provide bathing “solutions” for the less mobile. So why do we see them used by slim thirty-something telegenic fit bits skipping gaily in and out of these little havens of comfort?

If you need this sort of room, bathing is not a source of pleasure. It’s damned hard work. Just the thought of getting changed, hefting the body beautiful and facing the prospect of falling needs the steel of a Russian Roulette champion.

Betting adverts. Usually voiced by a “bit of a lad” with a sense of smugness that could only come from someone being paid for being a smart-arse. They talk of the smart and savvy.

I bet occasionally but I’m not spending £50 just to get a free bet. of course they disguise it as 5 £10 bets. £50 a week? £2600 a year? Hmmm! Maybe you could recoup the money after a visit by the Gurning Greg and his Eat Well for Less roadshow?

Renault Super Sunday. Apart from the football, this is perhaps the best way of sending me into the numb zone. Souness and Keane are both failed managers with the personality of green sludge. Then post-match analysis comes with the drone of Gary Neville performing his very own dirge with Jamie Carragher, sounding exactly the same only two octaves higher.

It has to be something special to get me watching the Antiques Roadshow.

“And now, the news.” Can I muster the strength to comment objectively on this?

But why should I?

BBC news is a masterpiece of showmanship. Or should that be showpersonship? (BBC aggressive equality policy.) It’s an intriguing blend of political bias based on hidden agendas relating to who’s buttering their bread. Somehow I have the impression that while his fellow presenters love the mocking style of Norman Smith, nobody actually likes Laura Kuenssburg.

There’s a distinct sense of naked ambition where the day to day presenters have boot marks all over their face from the ever greedy “correspondents” climbing all over them in a bid for the top salary. Now, I’m even switching off to stormin’ Norman-same old same old! He stands there in the lobby of the commons. It’s not discreet. As the tourists and visiting parties file away behind, he bellows away in his usual manner, hoping to make a lasting impression on the poor bewildered passing folk.

The location director secretly guides them with the shining edge of his pocket machete to ensure a smooth broadcast. At home, worn down by the tedium of the political carousel, I look at the listings.

Time to unfeel.

What else do I switch off to?

References to strictly-not my thing but let people have fun. Any other reality celebrity get me out of the ice-rink stuff?

Yeah, rock on.

Countless on the spot, fly on the wall documentaries about fare-dodgers, tax-dodgers, benefit claimants, bailiffs, in the ambulance, in A and E, a day in the life of a sandwich maker, the ordeals of the knights who say NEE, rat-catching and credit card snatching (nasty little scumbags on mopeds); yeah, have your day in court.

All I say is don’t expect me to join in. If a friend invited me around for a strictly final party, I’d go and enjoy myself.

The drink will help.

Thank you for reading.