On watching TV and going straight to Hell

On watching TV and going straight to Hell

It's not often that I write about something that I've seen on television. This is mainly because I don't watch that much TV, and when I do it comes with the two-hour prologue of soap opera that tends to dull the senses, leading to an evening of big laughs as we cruise the shopping channels.

However, in Special Needs Pets last week, the 'Blog Fodder' bells were ringing in my head before we even got to the first advert break.

The programme was, all said and done, a testament to the love that owners will show to their pets when they fall ill, are disabled, or become too old to live a normal, happy life.

Touching, even.

And not to be laughed at. At all.

Not even the rabbit in a wheelchair. Or the cat that had to be squeezed like bagpipes to get it to go to the toilet. Or the dog that looks so much like Fred Elliot from Coronation Street that the owners have to fend off autograph hunters.

None of these.

It was, I am sad to report, the parrot on Prozac.

God, it was tragic.

A tragic tale of one bird pining for its poor, dead owner who was only in his comfy armchair because he'd been nailed there.

From "Who's a pretty boy?" to "Stone the crows, what's the bloody point?", mooching round the house listening to Leonard Cohen albums.

I LOLed.

I LOLed, fully aware that I am going to Hell.

I got a dirty look from The Keeper of the Sky Plus Box and the pointed question: "Well? What's so funny?"

I gestured toward the screen, desperately trying to form words in the face of Emo Parrot shouting expletives down the phone at the nice lady from the Samaritans, yet none would come.

"Who's a pretty boy?"

"You're going to Hell, you are."

And the obligatory "Beautiful plumage", which she didn't get.

By way of penance, I shall be driving a carload of ducks with RSI south for the winter. Orange sauce supplies notwithstanding, they may even get there.