Enslaved!

There’s a programme on British terrestrial TV called The Jeremy Kyle Show. It’s one of those programmes in which a couple of combatants take the stage glowing with the lurid ugliness of anger and get their fifteen minutes of fame by hanging out their domestic dirty washing in public. It’s astonishingly awful, but that isn’t the point. The point is this:

I’ve mentioned before that my ex, Helen, works in a home for people with brain damage. One of the patients likes The Jeremy Kyle Show, and eagerly takes his place in the TV lounge every morning at the appointed hour. Ten minutes into the programme there’s a commercial break, at which point the poor chap becomes very agitated and starts loudly imploring all corners of the room ‘Where’s Jeremy Kyle gone?’

Well, as Helen says, it’s understandable, isn’t it? The system gives him one of the few things he takes pleasure in, and then pulls the plug and says ‘Right, now you’ve got to spend the next three minutes watching a bunch of bad actors with shouty voices trying to sell you something whether you like it or not.’

It isn’t right, is it?