(Series 28, ep.17) On Casualty, the staff always get appropriate patients. This week Fletch, who has been having an affair and has been thrown out of the marital home by Mrs Fletch, had to tell the Fletchlings that he may not be joining them for Christmas. Therefore his patient came complete with an adorable little girl who was being babysat by a drug dealer who was oblivious to her peanut allergy. This meant Fletch had to fling himself into battle – without even calling Security as backup! – to rescue her from a parked car.
Army Major Dr Sam, meanwhile, was wrestling with her conscience after snogging Army Iain when she’s supposed to be with the very tall Dr Tom Kent. Her patient was a man who’d been secretly ballroom dancing behind his wife’s back.
I enjoyed both of these stories, because they added to the continuing storylines for the staff as well as being interesting in their own right. By the end of the episode, Fletch had been offered a place on the sofa at the house shared by Robyn, Jamie and Max. Fletch did not look like he was going to settle down happily to a life of ignored cleaning rotas and no milk in the fridge. Continue reading
I’m a big fan of Boots No7 products. Together with my fanatical multi-disciplinary fitness regime (eating chocolate while watching television), Boots products are holding back the years like nobody’s business.
But threatening to undo all that good, wrinkle-erasing work are their teeth-grindingly awful TV ads. Basically, it doesn’t matter what the product is, the ad has to conclude with a female voice-over reiterating the product or the offer, followed by “Ta-dah!”
It’s that “Ta-dah!” that makes me want to rub Protect and Perfect into my eyeballs. It’s supposed to convey that, having used the product, you’re now ready for your public / the cameras / the school run / whatever. It’s a little fanfare. But for some reason it’s delivered in a smug, irritating, throwaway style. As a fanfare, it’s weak and pathetic. It’s like ‘Nessun Dorma’ would sound if it was sung by Lily Allen. It’s just annoying.
A quick google has led me to the shock discovery that this atrocity has been running since 2011. The “creatives” behind it, ad agency Mother, explained their thinking: “What we want to show with the ‘Ta-Dah’ campaign is a moment in time that all women have, when they know they look and, perhaps more importantly, feel their absolute best.”
I’ll leave to one side the notion that feeling your best is only “perhaps” more important than looking your best, to just wonder whether these amazing and rare moments in life couldn’t be celebrated some other way than with that horrible, horrible “Ta-dah.”
(Series 28, ep.15,16) I do apologise for the lack of Casualty reviews recently. I have been watching it, but to be honest I’ve been finding the programme a bit take-it-or-leave-it recently.
There was a patient storyline running across the last two episodes about a pair of homeless boys (one of them was more homeless than the other) who ended up getting into various incidents that resulted in hospital visits, as people tend to do on Casualty. A nasty man who apparently wanted sexual favours in return for “helping” them got involved. This was done in quite a subtle way, with the nastiness more threatened and implied than actual, but there was no doubt what was going on and the nasty man deserved to end up in hospital himself, which he duly did.
Staff-wise, Dr Lily Chao once again stomped around looking angry at the world (I like the way she seems to have an invisible laser beam originating between her eyebrows which she uses to lock on to her target, whether the target is a colleague, a patient or just a coffee machine that’s looked at her the wrong way) and once again other staff members attempted to teach her some lessons about bedside manners.
Dr Zoe Hanna told Fletch that she knew about his affair with Tess. Fletch’s marriage is apparently falling apart anyway, but presumably that was the case ages ago or he wouldn’t have had a fling with Tess.
The shock news was that Army Dr Major Sam kissed former army colleague Iain – and am I correct in thinking they were sitting at exactly the same table in the same pub where she proposed to Tom? The hussy. Though Tom might do himself a favour by trying to act a bit more fun, instead of loping around like a sullen lump for most of the time. Where is the dashing paediatric trauma medic who arrived (queasily) in a helicopter? He was rather thrilling. Currently Tom has all the charisma of a bottle of hand sanitiser and he’s going to have to sort himself out if he really wants to marry Sam.
Generally it all feels a bit stagnant at the moment and I’m looking forward to the arrival of Connie Beauchamp to stir things up a bit and give it a bit of flair. And give me something meaty to blog about every week.
(More Casualty here)
(Series 16, ep.8) This week we got to know more about Guy Self (or “Selfie” as he’s never called, but he should be). He lost his wife, which knocked his surgical confidence for a bit, but now he’s back. And he likes Miles Davis.
Do we know this because he confided in Sacha over a lemon and poppy-seed muffin at Pulses? No, we know it because a former colleague of his has arrived in the form of Colette Sheward. She appeared like a terrifying amalgam of Sahira Shah the Registrah and Best Nurse Eddie McKee – briskly efficient, stroppy and northern like the latter, and apparently indispensable to the CEO like the former. Irritating, in other words.
Colette had brought a patient with her. He was a former patient of Selfie’s and only Selfie could cure him blah blah. Which he duly did, and Colette couldn’t wait to get on the phone to the hospital the patient was supposed to be treated at and gloat a bit. Selfie then offered her a job. “I’m nothing without you,” he bleated. But is he anything with her? We’ll have to wait and see, because I remain to be convinced about either of them. Continue reading
(Series 16, ep.7) It was Malick’s farewell episode, and didn’t we just know it? He was given maximum opportunity to do all the classic Malick things – rush around going “Grrr,” shout at Digby, have an almighty strop, mess up a bit of surgery and try to worm out of it, and wrestle with his conscience about what kind of father he was to Jake. The only typical Malick thing that he didn’t get to do was have a steamy encounter in the locker room, but there was hardly time for any of that nonsense because he was so busy elsewhere.
It was actually all rather magnificent (apart from the sloppy one-handed chest drain incident – what happened to the standard cry of “We need some help in here”? And surely there’s a call button in the CT scanner room?). Since he damaged his hand, Malick has (understandably) been a tad immersed in self-pity, which has at times been fairly tedious to watch. By the end of this episode he’d recovered his mojo, but incorporated a few life lessons into it and become a humbler and wiser man. He’s The Malick again, but he’s Malick 2.0 – teacher, mentor, father. Ego restored and off to Sweden with his son and a James Brown soundtrack. Continue reading
I think Steven Moffat has given my brain indigestion. Even sleep didn’t untangle the knots he tied in my mind last night. It seems that The Day of the Doctor is an episode that genuinely requires two passes – the first to follow the plot, the second to absorb the story.
The first viewing left me a little deflated – there were so many good things in there, but it hadn’t moved me (and as you will know by now, I cry at the drop of hat – be it a fez or a stetson). A rewatching has, however, had me reaching for the tissues…
I can’t tell you if this is a reflection on my diminishing abilities to keep up with the Moff’s timey-wimey plotting, or a change in the way the man writes.
(Spoilers of many things 50th-related below the line…)
Thumper: ‘If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.’
Bambi: ‘I don’t care! Jess is awful! There, I said it!’
God knows, I love the Archers. I listen to it religiously (in that I pray a lot during it, mainly in the hope that Shula and Helen will be absent and Kate will have contracted a fatal disease). I’ve listened to it for years. Hot damn, I just worked out how many years, then hastily calculated the percentage of my life given over to this dementedly b-movie soap, and had a little cry. Hang on, though, I’ve just remembered that I’m always doing something else while TA is on – loading the dishwasher, for instance, or ironing, eating supper, or having sex – so in fact it’s not been time wasted at all. Phew. I’ll wipe my tears and get on with it.
So yes, I adore TA. But there is one teensy little thing that makes me cross, yes, only one, or at least, only one that I am going to focus on right now. And that is the pitiful attempts of the script-writers to try and force us to have particular opinions about characters, when clearly we are grown-up enough to make up our own minds. The most recent and egregious example of this concerns bloody Jess, Rob’s slightly-estranged wife, who’s finally been cast, I mean, finally turned up in Ambridge.
Sidebar: Blimey, that Rob can’t half pick ‘em! I mean, Helen AND Jess? And yet he apparently has enough physical va-va-voom to be cast as sexy Robin Hood, so could surely bag someone decent.