Reflections On 2012 Television Viewing (That I Stumbled Through While Doing Other Things Like Ironing)

Dear Network,

I wanted to like you. I did. I enjoyed the scathing (and rather terrifying) takedown of Tea Party politics:

I appreciated the “Drop The Dead Donkey-ish” effort to incorporating news items into the episodes, and I could have even grown to like the random absurd initiatives like holding a panel discussion with your staff doing political mad-libs:

I can’t see Mike Moore getting away with that kind of stunt – I wonder if they got to keep the shirts afterwards? Might have helped deal with the two months of planning  just to prove a point.

But if I have to put up with one more woman in your show demonstrating that the bulk of her character revolves around being inappropriately gamine and hysterical in the workplace (only occasionally alleviated with impressive fact-finding skills in the face of random disasters) with face stretched and teeth-clenched with unspoken (but uncomfortably obvious to EVERYONE) angst over relationship wranglings that could be simply worked out by just appealing to their increasingly weary-with-all-this-emotional-betrayal-significant-other to openly admit that it’s “just not working out” and give them a well-deserved push in the direction of the Soho-loft door? I’ll run you over with the Sex and the City tour bus that made an appearance in the final episode.

It’s what Samantha would have wanted.

I miss Gus and Sally.


Dear Revenge,

Wasn’t there, like, an economic crisis over the past few years or something? I guess none of you noticed that kind of thing while you were distracted by Emily VanCamp’s Emily Thorne perform like a block of wood carved in the shape of the Count of Monte Cristo (wearing Prada, natch) while the only sympathetic character (Nolan Ross) increasingly baffled everyone by not rapidly packing a bag and heading south away from the whole stinking rotten lot.

Nice interior decorating though, Mr and Mrs 1%.


Dear Call The Midwife,

Best argument for abstinence this side of Puberty Blues. I had nightmares. Nightmares that cheerily rode bicycles while waving hot water and towels.


Dear Smash,

Started well; fell during the middle of several contrived hurdles (I say it hurtled into the water obstacle around episode eight but I’d be willing to concede splash-down around episode four); should have been put out of its misery rather than limp along for so long wearing only one tap-shoe.

“Let me be your… snore…”


Dear Game Of Thrones, Homeland, Redfern Now, The Bridge and Rake,

Dear God. I want to have your sequels.

That’s all. More in 2013.

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