Sunday, February 06, 2005

In the last two months five televisions have graced in and out of my living room - I feel like Monica from Friends in that episode where none of her hotel rooms are good enough. My long-suffering fella has told me that he's going to make it his mission in life to ensure I never have any spare cash again. I have rejected DLP (rainbow effect - look it up), plasma (screen burn) and now have a Sony CRT which has something called "Advanced digital motion" - this means that the picture is so sharp that films lose that sexy slightly grainy quality and instead look as if they were filmed on video - like most British sitcoms. It's incredibly un-nerving - too real. Fortunately you can turn the option off (otherwise I'd be auditioning tv number 6).

Channel 4 showed a fascinating series called "Sex in the 70s" last week. My favourite programme was the one on the British 70s sex-comedy films, which although had nudity and simulated humping, were actually rather innocent. They also featured lots of "serious" actors, who needed the work. I remember one that had Jon Pertwee AND Willy Rushton in it. This meant that in the 1980s, the right-wing tabloids could expose them as being in "blue movies". I am currently watching Confessions of a Pop Performer (which has Tony Booth in it), it's not the sort of film that you have to pay a lot of attention to fortunately. Although these films are extremely sexist and heteronormative (it's dollybirds galore and there is a pop group called The Climax Sisters), the camera does seem to love the sight of Robin Asquith's bare bottom. I think the British response to sex is supremely unique and no matter how "cool" the UK tries to be, underneath we're still all giggling at "ooer missus" jokes and getting sex totally wrong.

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