Television, that prehistoric broadcast medium of unrequested shapes and noises spilling out of a furious little box that all your furniture points towards. That wretched hutch where tiny Cilla Black made her nest, where Anneka Rice routinely slipped the surly bonds of earth and a seven inch Matthew Kelly taunted families with all expenses paid trips to Costa Brava, if only dad could identify twenty lawnmowers by their silhouette alone. Before it was possible to watch eight uninterrupted hours of YouTube videos about airline logistics while lying on the bathroom floor, the scheduled spew of programmed television was all we had.
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