I am obsessed with British television shows.
My infatuation did NOT start with "Downton Abbey," thank you very much. It dates way back, decades earlier, when "Upstairs Downstairs" first aired in 1971. My Mum and I watched religiously on Sunday evenings, glued to all 68 episodes of this brilliant program over the five seasons that it ran. I loved the Bellamy family upstairs as much as I adored the servant "family" below stairs who ran operations at the posh 165 Eaton Place townhouse in the Belgravia neighborhood of Central London. Their story arcs spanned from 1903, the early Edwardian era, through the first World War, and on to the market crash of 1929. The concluding episode was unbearable to watch, it was that sad. I wept for days.
Other sweeping-epic weepies got me going as well: "The Forsythe Saga," "The Jewel in the Crown," and "Brideshead Revisited."
Meanwhile, Dad preferred the mysteries, police procedurals, and lawyer shows. He got a big bang out of the eponymous, "Rumpole of the Bailey," which featured a portly, rumpled barrister triumphantly arguing cases at the Old Bailey, while, at home listening, selectively, to "She Who Must be Obeyed," his wife. It's my theory that Dad saw Horace Rumpole as a reflection of his own true self.
"Maigret" was also popular at our house. Then came "Morse," Agatha Christie's "Poirot" and "Miss Marple," "Campion," PD James' "Inspector Dalgliesh," "Hetty Wainthrop Investigates," "Inspector Lynley," "Foyle's War," and my much-adored, "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes," starring, Jeremy Brett, the actor who embodied every eccentricity that the character demanded.
These well-crafted series begat contemporary programs that the Mr and I have relished: "Prime Suspect," "George Gently," "Vera," "Broadchurch," "Endeavour," "Inspector Lewis," "Hinterland," "Shetland," "Scott & Bailey," "Unforgotten," "Grantchester," and the clever, classy, ever-fascinating, "Sherlock," with that gorgeous Benedict Cumberbatch as Holmes.
(I do understand and identify with you obsessed devotees of "Poldark," "Dr Who," and "Outlander," although those shows never quite caught my fancy, what with all that raucous swashbuckling, time travel, and Jacobite uprising. But I respect your devotion.)
I prefer the mellower dramas that brought English literature to life: "Pride and Prejudice," "Emma," "Wuthering Heights," "The Bronte Sisters," "Miss Potter," and "Jeeves and Wooster." And of course, "The Tudors," "Victoria," and "The Crown," to name a few "historical" dramas, give you just about all you need to know about British history.
And who can forget comedies, like: "Monty Python's Flying Circus," "Fawlty Towers," "Hancock's Half Hour," "The Two Ronnies," "The Vicar of Dibley," "Mr Bean," "Blackadder," "The Thin Blue Line," and "Keeping up Appearances"? And more recently: "The Office," "Extras," "Doc Martin," and "Mum." Hilarious — especially if you actually "get" British humour.
Gosh, I bet I've watched all nine seasons of, "As Time Goes By," at least nine times. But that's the nature of obsession. I love to imagine that someone as lovely as its star, Dame Judi Dench, is happily on her second marriage, residing in a smart townhouse in Holland Park, pouring a proper cup of tea for a proper sit down and proper chin wag.
So many British TV shows stoke my imagination. Sometimes, in my mind's eye, I am an amateur sleuth, like one of those little old ladies in cardigans who possess high deductive reasoning and go around solving crimes that baffle even the most seasoned of police inspectors, all of whom are conflicted individuals with drinking problems and relationship issues. In this daydream of mine, I live in a charming London flat near St. James Park. My breakfast table sports a toast rack and a Brown Betty teapot. After a hard day of sleuthing, I meet my mates at the local pub to quaff a swift half with a bag of crisps. Or I make egg and chips for my afternoon tea — or maybe even get a curry take-away. I drive a vintage Mini Cooper along hedgerows in the Lake District. I make furtive calls from red phone booths. I pull my collar up against the wind howling off the moors, and totter along cobblestone streets amid thatched cottages in the Cotswolds. I gaze at the English Channel as the surf crashes against white cliffs. I take romantic train journeys up to Scotland, ordering tea and scones, or gin and tonic, or Scotch rocks, with Holmes' observations tucked away at the back of my mind, "It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys of London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than the smiling and beautiful countryside."
And so it would seem from watching Brit TV! Every sweet little country village has a murder per week. At least! There's a lot of that going round, you know. Blimey!
Cups of strong tea with heaping spoonfuls of sugar soon put things to right again, though. And everything is tickety boo in the end.
Or at least that's how things are on British television.
