sheldrake

Well, my Christmas was very pleasant. Very pleasant but, it has to be said, a bit dull. So, to relieve the tedium, I took it upon myself to carefully monitor the slash potential of this year's UK seasonal TV schedules. I present my findings below.



Christmas Eve

6.30pm: White Christmas. A nice start to the experiment as Bing Crosby is repeatedly slapped with blue ostrich feathers by Danny Kaye, whilst both miming to 'Sisters, sisters, never were there such devoted sisters...'

7.30pm: Shackleton. Dashing icebound explorers waltz together below decks on the Endurance to the sound of the gramophone. When someone tries to turn the music off, one protests, "Do you mind? We're working."

8pm: A promise of slashiness to come in the Times Magazine's preview of The Hound of the Baskervilles (Boxing Day) - "In a cunning fade, we segue from the mist of Dartmoor to the steam of a Turkish bath, out of which Holmes and Watson emerge pink and glistening, wrapped in towels (if not quite round each other)..."

9.30pm: The Mummy. John Hannah is roughly manhandled by Brendan Fraser during a crucial 'removing of scarab beetle from beneath skin' operation.

10.20pm: Flicking between channels. Slashiness very thin on the ground. Extremely bored and the cat is looking at me suspiciously.

10.30pm: Have Yourself A Very Eighties Christmas. Ding dong! Bing Crosby opens the door... "Hello, I'm David Bowie; I live down the road..." Is it me, or does this sound like the beginning of a porn film? Actually, I don't think I wish to pursue that any further.

Christmas Day

2.30pm: A Christmas Carol. Yes, there's a definite spark between Scrooge (Patrick Stewart) and Bob Cratchit (Richard E. Grant). Isn't there? No? Ok.

3.15pm: Death on the Nile. Not slashy at all, unless you count this interlude:
Poirot (with two male companions, all in dressing gowns): Did you happen to hear anything unusual last night?
Lady: Yes. I was awoken by a sort of popping noise...
Poirot shoots meaningful glance at his friends.

5.50pm: Shackleton (Part 2). Dashing frostbitten explorers huddle together beneath tarpaulins in order to 'conserve heat'. Well, that's their excuse.

Rest of evening passes in tinselly blur. I drown slowly in sea of food and drink whilst being pelted with plastic dinosaurs by a three year old.

Boxing Day (December 26th)

10.30am: T4. Long-haired Mancunian presenter dresses up as Father Christmas solely in order to lure that bloke who used to be on Hollyoaks onto his lap to be 'interviewed'. Outrageous flirting ensues, including the line, "Do you prefer giving or receiving... at Chrismas?"

11.40am: Little Women. Jo needs the love of a good woman, and no amount of German professors shipped in from New York is going to change my mind.

2.55pm: Oliver! Um, no.

9pm: The Hound of the Baskervilles. Ah, very nice. Very nice indeed. Much smouldering occurs between Richard Roxburgh's sexy Holmes and Ian Hart's delightful Watson. Not to mention Watson tying Henry Baskerville's bow tie for him, and Stapleton (Richard E. Grant again, the scamp!) begging Holmes to allow him to run a finger along his (insert anatomical term here) cranium. Or something. After solving the case, Holmes and Watson travel home together on the train, and make a date to have dinner that evening. Smoulder, smoulder, smoulder, the end.

10.40pm: Jackass Christmas Special. Juvenile, gross and pointless, obviously. On the other hand, a lot of young men throwing themselves on top of one another in reckless abandon. Wahey!

December 27th

Am carted off to the home for insane slashers. Oh well. We scientists are wont to suffer. Look at Marie Curie, or... Russell Crowe.