I do an “in praise of” page in Facebook, describing simple things that give me pleasure in today's world. As part of this I have a small collection of things that whilst very popular in themselves, are dismissed by the more culturally savvy Zeitgeist-meisters as somehow beneath them. On this list is such as Mumford & Sons, cheddar cheese, iceberg lettuce, Hugh Grant and The One Show, which I have nominated many times. There really has never been a better show to eat your dinner to.
And tonight's was a belter. As its main piece, and what I meant to write about before the awesomeness of the show took me in a different direction, was one of those shorts on house prices, which I've seen cyclically every few years since the 80s. You know, the one where they look at a house selling in the North for thruppence ha'penny and a lock-up garage in Kensington selling for all the tea in China.
The northern locations, and indeed the price, have never changed. Stockport, Oldham, Burnley. Tonight, we were in Blackburn where the odd, very odd, person came round for a viewing and poked his head in the metaphorical laundry bin before leaving, shaking his head in sorrow. In London, meanwhile, 80 young aspirational couples who work in finance and bank with mum and dad, were caught in a bidding war against each other whilst a spotty young estate agent stroked himself off into an aspidistra.
So far, so what. But what's striking is how the locations in London have changed. Over the years Fulham has become Putney has become Balham has become Tooting. But tonight we jumped the shark, punched through the glass ceiling, picked up the Northern Line and carried it onto maps uncharted. A three bed in Blackburn may still cost a barely affordable £125,000 but a three bed end terrace in West Norwood costs £575,000. In West Fucking Norwood.
The One Show meanwhile, moved on quickly. A football team from Stoke were on. Last weekend they won for the first time in six and a half years. In front of 12 spectators. Happy days. Within minutes special guest Jerry Springer was on all fours barking like a dog. Really. Phil Tufnell then takes part in an incredible shadow-puppet show about to open in the West End (presumably without Phil) whilst the dashing Dan Snow fondled his very own bomb and Edwina Currie fellated an alsatian.
Oh OK , that last part isn't strictly true, I'm just hoping Google picks up on it in searches, but nothing is entirely impossible when it comes to this show, which just keeps on giving.
And tonight's was a belter. As its main piece, and what I meant to write about before the awesomeness of the show took me in a different direction, was one of those shorts on house prices, which I've seen cyclically every few years since the 80s. You know, the one where they look at a house selling in the North for thruppence ha'penny and a lock-up garage in Kensington selling for all the tea in China.
The northern locations, and indeed the price, have never changed. Stockport, Oldham, Burnley. Tonight, we were in Blackburn where the odd, very odd, person came round for a viewing and poked his head in the metaphorical laundry bin before leaving, shaking his head in sorrow. In London, meanwhile, 80 young aspirational couples who work in finance and bank with mum and dad, were caught in a bidding war against each other whilst a spotty young estate agent stroked himself off into an aspidistra.
So far, so what. But what's striking is how the locations in London have changed. Over the years Fulham has become Putney has become Balham has become Tooting. But tonight we jumped the shark, punched through the glass ceiling, picked up the Northern Line and carried it onto maps uncharted. A three bed in Blackburn may still cost a barely affordable £125,000 but a three bed end terrace in West Norwood costs £575,000. In West Fucking Norwood.
The One Show meanwhile, moved on quickly. A football team from Stoke were on. Last weekend they won for the first time in six and a half years. In front of 12 spectators. Happy days. Within minutes special guest Jerry Springer was on all fours barking like a dog. Really. Phil Tufnell then takes part in an incredible shadow-puppet show about to open in the West End (presumably without Phil) whilst the dashing Dan Snow fondled his very own bomb and Edwina Currie fellated an alsatian.
Oh OK , that last part isn't strictly true, I'm just hoping Google picks up on it in searches, but nothing is entirely impossible when it comes to this show, which just keeps on giving.
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