Bloody Covid again.  Only (to my knowledge) the second time I have succumbed, but against all expectations (being fully vaccinated) far worse than the first time: the mildest of coughs, but a head pumped so full of mucus that it feels as though the top of my cranium might just detach from the rest of my skull with a ‘pop!’ like a champagne cork.  I realise that this annoying twenty-first century bully is not interested in those who can give it a fair fight, but preys on us oldies, especially when we are already down.  I was at the diminishing end of a persistent cold that had chipped away at my body for weeks: symptoms were slowly subsiding when ‘Pow!’ they returned in spades and, unusually, bowled me over.  I do not know whether my ‘cold’ was actually Covid all along, or whether it simply passed its fading symptoms on, but one way or another I seem to have spent some weeks falling to this point and, quite frankly, I’m fed up with it now and ready to fight back.  I am currently reviewing a complete list of bones and muscles in the hope of finding one that does not ache.

I’m not good at being ill – God knows I’m bad enough at being well – and I feel affronted.  I visualize disease as any other enemy and just as soon as I regroup my senses I will kick its shins.  My counter attack began with the peanut butter sandwich I had been craving all night and three bituminous cups of black coffee before a few hours in front of Saturday morning TV which, having worked Saturdays for much of my adult life, I have not seen in many years.  Sadly, it is not what it was: what has happened to Daktari?  Where are The Banana Splits?  Why can I no longer summon International Rescue?  Life is not the same when it is robbed of the Frank Bough/Dickie Davies conundrum: Grandstand or World of Sport?  Motorcross or all-in wrestling?

After some searching I did manage to locate an episode of Columbo.  Not that difficult I admit, but I’m not sure it’s an episode I’ve seen before – at least, not often.  What is noticeable is that the peerless 70’s detective is now punctuated by very twenty-first century adverts: fuss-free cremations, on-line bingo, over-fifties insurance policies (guaranteed acceptance, no medicals), stair-lifts, mobility scooters, incontinence pants, and motorized high-seat chairs.  It is clear that the Saturday Morning TV audience has changed.  It is no longer expected to grow into a Saturday evening audience, it is expected to fade and die with its funeral already paid for and its descent downstairs assured – as long as the electricity is not summarily disconnected.  Clarence the Cross-Eyed Lion is neither an acceptable source of entertainment, nor what the target audience now wants to see.

So two questions pop into my virus-fuzzy head 1) what does the current, obviously ageing Saturday morning viewer actually want to see and 2) where are the current teens; today’s equivalent of those who comprised the audience way back when?   Not out in the fresh air obvs.  I watch the news: I know that all young people are allergic to the outside world.  They are locked away in darkened rooms playing CoD with a world full of friends whom they have never met – nor ever will if they’ve got any sense.  Cyber friends and virtual enemies are the new early-teen staples – and not a single age-prejudiced bug nor a visually impaired lion in sight…

When you thought I was winning the game
You came and snuffed out the flame
You thought you finished me off
But you just made me strong
Each time you dealt me a blow
Each time you brought me so low
I found something inside to help me along…  My Enemy – Richard Thompson