We finished Netflix, now what?

Like the rest of you, the pandemic has kept Sue and me hunkered down at home – and as a result we’re watching more television than ever. After exhausting the Netflix library we stared at each other in bewilderment.

You might be spending far to much time in front of the boob tube when you catch yourself scrolling through documentaries and wondering if you’re ready to commit the next 60 minutes of your life to “The True Story behind Alien Anal Probes hosted by Nick Nolte” or, better yet, “Top Secret Nazi Super Weapons” complete with clunky Powerpoint animations and narrated by “Anonymous Guy with English accent.”

I tightened my grip on the remote control (I’m simply not comfortable when Sue has it) trying in vain to squeeze out one last drop of programming. I turned to Sue: “There’s absolutely nothing left to watch – we’ve gone through every last show.”

Sue and I stared at each other for a moment.

“Now what are we going to do?” she asked despairingly.

“I don’t know…”

“Well, we’d better come up with something,” she replied.

And in that desperate moment – came our deus ex machina - we heard the distinctive chorus of “Rule Britannia” blaring from our neighbour’s patio speakers.

“Please go ask him to turn it down,” said Sue.

“You ask him,” I replied.

Sue gave me her “I’m not kidding look” – so I resigned myself to the fact that the message was best to come from me.

Arriving at the foot of the stairs of my neighbour’s deck, I spotted Robin with a can of Boddingtons beer in one hand and bowl of salted Virginia peanuts on his lap. He was waving his arms in full imperial glory to the rousing patriotic melody.

Robin - his advice has been a gift from the Gods of the idiot box.

He looked at me, smiled, and immediately detected my mood. “Why so glum chum?” Robin (who often requires subtitles to decipher) asked in his thick English accent.

Forgetting my mission entirely, I shouted out over the music the topic that was top of mind. “We finished Netflix,” I said. “And now we don’t know what to do with ourselves.”

Robin shook his head. “Forget Netflix,” he cried. “I’ve got just the solution to your conundrum! Brits make the most brilliant telly!”

I instantly had my doubts.

“Robin, don’t Brits fill an auditorium with lager-soaked, chanting hooligans for a game of darts and consider it exciting enough to broadcast? You know the ones where the “athletes” have paunches, piercings, mullets, and blurry tattoos? Not exactly my notion of brilliant telly,” I protested.

“Oh bollocks!” he shot back. (Robin doesn’t really use that word, but I thought it sounded good.)

I then turned to see Sue standing behind me, covering her ears – and was reminded of my original mission.

Robin continued his praise of British television. “You simply must subscribe to Britbox! It’s elementary! Imagine every episode of every season of every show ever to appear on BBC or ITV!”

“What’s he saying?” muttered Sue in my ear. “Can you ask him to take the marbles out of his mouth?”

But, for once, Robin was right.

His advice has been a gift from the Gods of the idiot box.

Sue and I instantly fell in love with an array of British copper/detective dramas.

Allow me now to share some initial insights:

It’s actually refreshing to see regular looking folk starring in these productions – you won’t find airbrushed, surgically enhanced Ken’s and Barbie’s in U.K. shows. And these homely headliners pull it off – because – get this – they can actually act – like really well.

Furthermore, I have concluded that in all of Britain there aren’t more than a dozen actors – (and even fewer dentists?). These master thespians work tirelessly – playing a creepy psychopath in one series and haunted, sexy DCI (by English standards, of course) the next.

The contrast with Hollywood productions is fascinating to explore. British scripts are smart and the characters are – like the rest of us – multi-dimensional.

Take the police interview of a suspect for example. The American show has a vengeful, drop-dead gorgeous detective slamming his interviewee’s face against the table in hopes of extracting the whereabouts of the latest victim who may still be alive…

The British equivalent has a wrinkled, menopausal Detective Chief Inspector serenely pose the question: “Where were you on the afternoon of Tuesday, September 14th between the hours of 3 and 4:30 pm?”

The diabolical British perp pauses, rubs his forehead and answers: “Lemme’ think… Why, Tuesday… I remember now… I was having a cuppa with me mates.”

Sue finds a specific characteristic of these dramas pretty accurate: the female characters are the only source of competence.

With precious few exceptions, the men in these shows are wankers or philanderers (or both) – driven by animal urges or deep-seated insecurities. They are the ex-husbands and current colleagues of women who demonstrate maturities and noble motivations beyond the grasp of the Neanderthals in their lives.

We’re currently in season five of Prime Suspect with the sublime Helen Mirren – and hopeful that this newfound collection can carry us through the rest of the pandemic.

Thanks to Robin, in our house, Britannia is indeed ruling the (air)waves – and, alas, Sue and I have become slaves to every clever, cliff-hanging episode.

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