A fun blog of 'soft' philosophy about the life and times of a Westiepoo called Chester. Written as a prelude to a more serious novel raising the question: Who is the most bankrupt: the banker who won't whistle-blow or the chef who loses her livelihood?
My history of television viewing is bitter-sweet. On the one hand, if the TV is on it usually means fellowship and a welcome stroke of my neck or chin. And yet, on the other, the TV carries with it the risk of human betrayal in the cry of vociferous complaints if the broadcaster airs the wrong pictures and sounds.
It often goes like this ...
I'm on the couch, minding my affairs: drowsy or sleeping whatever, and the TV gets turned on. At first, it's not a problem. Twenty-two men are running around a field chasing after a ball. Nothing untoward happens. In fact, I quite relish it as I dream of chasing around a grass bowl with my tennis ball. To add to my overall feeling of happiness and contentment, I can also prod my way onto Mr. A's lap: head down, under his arms and into his midriff (easy when you know how), and a healthy pet and massage.
All of sudden, when a chap called Gary Lineker finishes his football match 'autopsy' (as Mrs. B likes to call it), the atmosphere shifts. I hear audio from an ident alerting me to a change in programming. There maybe dogs running in and out of a series of oversized croquet hoops deposited in a perfect circle. If so, I must jump at the TV cupboard and bark incessantly. It's a habit that, unfortunately, I cannot break and ends with an unfair rebuke: a treachery of my canine instinct that my owners bought into when the acquired me.
BBC One has so many worthy idents, including bikers, footballers, capes, helicopters, hippos, and kites, and yet, the 'Dog Display Team' ident is particularly pitiful. As the branding piece is transmitted to identify the channel's service and to announce the next programme, there's a poor lonely dog who doesn't belong in the display circle. Have you ever noticed it? How one of them gets lost on the outside of the circle only to end up in the middle? It's like the hard luck story of coming last in musical chairs, except he or she doesn't even fight for an available hoop, just meanders in and out. It's frustrating to watch: I genuinely want to help the disadvantaged mutt and show it how to rejoin the circle, not least because I also wish to participate in their fun and adventure between the rings.
The next TV incident invariably occurs when the Countryfile programme ensues. For the benefit of those who don't know, it's a weekly magazine featuring people, places, and stories making the news in the British countryside. It's quintessential comfortable Sunday evening TV: light entertainment, uncontroversial viewing, preparation of the UK workforce with some pleasantries and niceness before the beginning of the working week ahead. A mix of #SundayFunday and #MotivationalMonday slipped into the public consciousness from the establishment!
Countryfile is (as one might know or imagine) full of all kinds of animals, like Gloucestershire Old Spots. Known for their gentleness, aptitude, and virility, my favourite Old Spots produce the best kind of pork sausages ever! Yes, the farm animals (and some wild ones too) keep me leaping up at the TV screen, scratching the furniture, barking uncontrollably with excitement and provoking the wrath of erstwhile household TV viewers. They've usually become so fed up with my antics; they've gone to boil the kettle for a good olde cup of tea. On returning to the lounge, the householders scold me harshly (not literally with water but in the literary sense with words), dragging me to the door before shutting me out. Of course, my revenge is sweet when I protest: always irritating them by scratching at the French doors, whimpering until they let me back in (ha ha).
And so the moral of today's story is don't turn on the TV if you want the world to stop still and stay silent in your leisure time. It isn't going to happen. You either stroke me and play with me in my world where I can love you while you view your popular programmes, or you'll hate the motion and din of the TV, for introducing the world of all kinds of creatures that would otherwise remain unbeknown to me!
As Mrs. Brooks would say, "The End." Until another time!