Why the BBC Need to Employ Me to Write for them: a Review of Poldark.

Drama set in 1780s Cornwall. Well, that’s unusual. I hope this is a costume drama about men on horses eating ice cream. That’d be great. Oh, it’s a wood. Oh, the main character is a sarcastic little shoebag, but Oh GOLLY. It’s FACEMAN. Man that had his gorgeous manface on something else I remember watching and being bored by, but his FACE.

Shot at 0.58seconds is amazing because the soldiers are manly BUT THEN LONG SHOT and they all look like tiny little pixies among tiny little trees and this is great shooting because it shows that they can also play cards. But then gunshot and apparently the aim of the game is to get blood on your opponent’s cards. Wow they’re manly and now no longer tiny.

The bit where he walks into the dining room is stunning. He’s like Banquo’s ghost, but he’s made out of wood and as the scene gets longer you start to wish that Macbeth will appear and kill him quicker.  And then next scene: this poor man’s now lost his rich woman and THEN next scene when he calls his family in the ruins of his old home and there’s only a goat there. HIS FAMILY ARE NOW A GOAT? Oh no wait! AND A RAT. Oh, AND A CHICKEN. Poultrydark. Why did that chicken put half its body’s worth of feathers on his hat. Oh my sock, how is all this ridiculous happening and I am still so bored.

There are a lot of silent shots with DolfacePark looking at scenery. This means that this man has emotions. Look how he looks at that abandoned piece of farm machinery. He must be troubled. I bet it’s a woman. Bloody women. Their only excuse is that they’ve got those stupid frilly dresses on that push their boobs up so high that the boob and the brain must have swapped places.

Oh, BoobWoman is called Elizabeth. He’s said it a lot now. I’m impressed he’s remembered her name when there’s so much boob. I definitely would have said ‘boob’ accidentally instead of Elizabeth by now if I was stood next to her. Elizaboob.

Oh it’s time for him to go visit the farm labourers. The way that he finds them is by following the smell of their poor from atop his horse (unfortunately not eating an ice cream). You know these people are poor because they have strategically smeared shit on their faces and cannot afford to get their hair blowdried like their master, Permdark.

My friend Nicole said her brother’s named after Ross Poldark from the original  TV series in 1975. He is called Ross. This is hilarious. But also, BBC, another remake? Why not pay me to write something original. I’d like that. And in this instance, I use ‘original’ synonymously with ‘at least vaguely enjoyable’.

Oh, his woman-servant hiding in a field. Oh, his man-servant hiding there too! Oh goodness, this bit’s more dramatic than that astonishing bit where he pretended to be asleep but he actually wasn’t. I’ve got to 19.07 and I can’t stand it anymore.

It’s like someone describing having lost one shoe. But they’re tapping out the story with the toes of the now shoeless foot. And you can’t understand morse code. And it’s less interesting than that.
Even the possibility of this faceman having a body that he washes in a stream (because Byronic) next week is not enough to tempt me to watch it.

Here are my thoughts in a space so unlike what the inside of my brain looks like I feel more organised now through comparison.

I just made wine lollies and now I’m typing with one clog on one foot and the other trying to grab-pull the biscuit tin closer to my face. Welcome.

My thinking behind starting a blog is simply that I feel I don’t have enough of an online presence to thoroughly satisfy my stalkers. And whilst online stalking is totally acceptable, actually stalking me is not and I fear you lovely people will be driven to this length if I don’t eloquently belittle my own life into quirky squit-sized pieces for you to all sift through in your leisure times.

But enough turds and merriment for the time being.
I shall return soon with things for you to admire.
First I must figure out how to take a photograph of my foot.
Goodbye.