FFS

I don’t think I’ve ever shouted at the television in frustration before. Certainly not when I was on my own, nobody else to hear it. I don’t consider myself an angry person by any means, and it took several steps to get there before it all boiled over.

Step 1 was doing ironing and wanting to find something to watch.

Step 2 was finding nothing worth watching.

Step 3 was giving up on finding anything worth watching, and deciding to see what they were up to on the Logies.

Step 4: “Coming up… Delta Goodrem”

Step 5 was Eddie presenting.

Step 6 … and continually pronouncing her name as Deltra, while recounting her past year like anybody (even me who doesn’t read the gossip rags in the supermarket checkout) wouldn’t know. CD hit, the lymphoma, new look, new boyfriend…

Step 7 was bringing Deltra up on stage and recounting it again. At first I thought she might be embarrassed, but wait, she’s a singer and former soapie starlet, right? It would have been all pre-arranged.

And the final straw that broke the camel’s back? Eddie: “Mark!” And they cut to the boyfriend in the audience.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” I shouted, changing channels hurredly, find some commercials to watch instead.

Who watches that crap? Not me, that’s who. I can only assume it’s aimed at the type of people like my dad’s old neighbour, who one time when I went over to collect his mail, found her breathless, almost weepy, over something that had happened to Maggie in Blue Heelers. Not that I’d begrudge someone their favourite TV series or personality, and I’m sure Deltra’s been through a lot, but there are more important things in the world.

PS. Footy tipping. By the end of Saturday night, I’d got 4 out of 5. Hooray. By the end of the weekend, 4 out of 8. Boooo. Oh well, could be worse.