Rather than giving up the idiot box, it has given up me. Or given up on me: my eleven year old TV/DVD combo finally stopped working earlier this month. Visiting my house recently has been a course in regression therapy; no television, no internet access. I would be a perfect candidate for David Mitchell's "The Bubble", although I would not be able to watch the final result. It could be edited to suggest I wasn't there at all; or contributed nothing to the programme other than staring with desperate eyes at Victoria Coren (oh come on, she's bound to me on, it's a panel show).
Not having television only began to become quite annoying after the general election campaign, proof that being within the election process puts a person off the whole thing for life. It's not just missing the football (or even cricket) that has started the process of growing tetchy at the empty box in the corner of the room. Rather than flipping open the laptop to discuss the provisional England team or the new Foals album, or whatever it was I used to do after work, (I'll hear nothing about spending hours playing Runescape. It just didn't....Well, okay, once. More than once. Shut up, I've lost my train of thought....)
....Football, yes, that's it. I spent an hour or so putting up with Mark Bright on Radio 5 Live making the case for Glen Johnson, followed by a man whose voice I couldn't place arguing that Phil Jagielka could still be an outside bet for South Africa. Unlike the talking heads on Sky Sports News (usually a couple of Chelsea players who last put on the shirt in 1987 and are even too Z-list for Question of Sport), I had no other option but to keep on listening. Unless it's late enough to switch to Radio 4, channel hopping isn't an option. It's an analogue radio, for one, complete with competing frequencies bleeding into whatever I'm listening to; it's like listening to the radio on acid, presenters voices turning into knife-sharp Dalek noises.
(All that said, is there still an outside chance for Villa's Agbonlahor? Okay, okay, I know he has "Walcott Disorder", combining a sprinter's pace with all the shot of accuracy of a NATO bomber over Serbia, I'm a traditionalist with forwards....)
Listening to recent events on the radio only adds a certain atmospheric flavour. Athens and Bangkok going up in flames has all description and atmosphere of a radio play. I fall asleep to Radio 4, waking up to the final broadcasts of the World Service before the Shipping Forecast. In short, I'm going slowly insane. One more night where dreams are infected by the commentary of South Asian farming communities or interviews with Bulgaria's most high-profile opposition backbencher, and I may very well go on a rampage.
It's not that I ignore the bigger pictures here - Britain has far too many low- and middle- income earners who cannot afford digital television or access to broadband internet, and the previous Labour Government failed to do anything about our lobsided telecommunications industry stifling the introduction of superfast broadband - it's just after a month of not having even the chance to slump in front of Come Dine With Me has finally taken its toll. I am going to start taking brisk walks around town or cleaning up more often or something else equally out of character.
All things being well - and my financial state means, this could be a lofty boast - I should be purchasing a new netbook in two weeks time. Until then, no iPlayer, no messageboards, no late night MSN sessions sharing 80s theme tunes with my mates (what do you mean, 'how old am I?'). From a distance, maybe it seems like a good thing, not having any access to the world outside bar the crackle and hiss of an analogue radio. Thing is, I know what not to be romantic about, and this sure ain't a situation I want to fall in love with.