I LOVE ALL TV

IT has become increasingly fashionable to angrily declare, “I hate television”. This is especially true in the literati, intelligentsia and newspaperman circles I hang out in. When my first collection of hallucinations was published and I started rubbing shoulders with intellectuals I, too, would join the chorus of disgust at the IQ-diminishing Satan that is TV. But I felt such a fraud.

Nowadays when I hear this, followed by the obligatory “I’d rather read a book instead”, I internally roll my eyes because it is always said in haughty tones that suggest, “Give me a Bell’s, I’m so sophisticated”.

Bollocks. I love TV. It is a pity I can only watch maybe 10 hours a week — and that’s mostly news channels or the Oscar trial, the World Cup and Wimbledon these days. And I only watch these for functional reasons that have to do with work and keeping abreast of current affairs. If I had more time I’d vegetate in front of the TV to keep up with the Kardashians, watch Top 20 Funniest or to listen to David Attenborough’s enthralling commentary on the sex life of the honey badger for hours on end.

For me, the dumber and more mindless the content, the better. This is why one of my favourite things to do with the kids after an exhausting Saturday at the park is to watch three PVR’ed episodes of Ridiculousness in a row.

For the benefit of the intellectuals who’d rather read N’gugi Wa Thiongo and Ben Okri on a Saturday evening, Ridiculousness is a pretty moronic American programme that shows video clips featuring citizens of that intellectually imposing part of the globe crash into buildings, trees and whatnot. The kids love that programme. We laugh until our sides hurt and snot and tears run down our faces because, let’s face it, a fat kid from Wisconsin crash landing gonadfirst into a tree is hilarious.

Lamenting the lack of educational, intelligent TV programming is a lot like grumbling about the lack of pacifism during a championship fight between Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield.

I watch TV because it’s entertaining, not to learn anything. I have books for that. I don’t watch HARDtalk because I think there’s anything of value in watching Stephen Sackur pretend he knows more about the complexities surrounding the Kirkuk issues than Iraq’s Zuhair alNaher and then when his ignorance is exposed, cuts him off with: “I’m afraid I’m going to have to press you for a short answer because we’re running out of time”. I watch it because, when that happens, I giggle

The more mindless the content, the better

my behind off. It’s entertaining.

I actually remember when I fell in love with TV. Towards the end of the 1976th year of our Lord, a guy named Vorster with initials that spelt fellatio decreed that we could spend our evenings being turned into zombies by the corrosive effects of TV. I remember the first time I personally viewed one like it was yesterday. This was in February 1978 and the event was the first meeting between Muhammad Ali and Leon Spinks for the heavyweight championship of the world at Mr Nyongwane’s (my dad’s colleague) house. Look, I had seen moving pictures many times before because my mom would give me and my elder brother Mazwi 20 cents each to walk to Hammarsdale’s Glazer Hall and watch kung fu star Silver Fox declare: “You killed my father 20 years ago, now I kill you.”

But what totally blew my mind was the idea of movies in one’s lounge. I was hooked. After beating Mazwi and me within an inch of our short lives for returning home after 8pm because we’d been watching The High Chaparral at the Khumalos, my dad finally got us our own set in 1979. Sheer bliss. We could finally enjoy Lee Majors in The Six Million Dollar Man (or Die Man Van Staal as we knew it after the SAUK was done dubbing it into Afrikaans) in the comfort of our own lounge.

Unlike the Khumalos’ black-andwhite set — the size of my nine-yearold’s tablet — my dad went big and bought a 46-inch Salora with a wooden finish. We had the only colour TV set within a 10km radius, I reckon. My popularity ratings in the neighbourhood shot through the roof. I was like 2008 Obama without an “I can” speech. Kids five years older than me were randomly handing me half their gwinyas (vetkoeks) in the playground the week preceding the 1980 Mainstay Cup final between Pirates and Swallows to ensure a good spot through the win- dow of my mom’s lounge. Mom didn’t want “filthy feet” on her Cobra polish finish, see.

It wasn’t always roses though. I once spent the duration of an entire episode of Little House On the Prairie standing next to the TV, holding the bunny ears after a vicious thunderstorm had rendered the aerial obsolete unless a bigheaded seven-year-old held it exactly 9cm away from his head at a 38.7° angle. Unfortunately for me, my elder brother was eight.

TV was very different then. And it was significantly dumber. We had Buck Rogers in die 25ste Eeu (man in fencing tights and a talking robot annex galaxies) Liewe Heksie, Wielie Walie and Moemfie’n (don’t ask me what that was about), Magnum P.I. (gigolo in floral shirt and red Ferrari solving crimes), Oh George (rolls eyes), Knight Rider (talking car with emotions) etc. I keep hearing people claim TV has dumbed down over the years. I cannot disagree more. As much as I loved my TV in 1984, given the choice of watching Victoria Principal’s big hair and shoulder pads, I’d go with watching Frank Gallagher from Shameless drink through his behind any day. I would tell you more, but I see it’s time for Homeland. Is there anyone else out there? LS ngcobon@sundaytimes.co.za @NdumisoNgcobo

We had the only colour set within a 10km radius, I reckon