Lately, I’ve been doing something of which I’m genuinely ashamed. Not cock-fighting, shoplifting or correcting punctuation on greengrocers’ signs. It’s worse than those, because I’m not in control. I’ve started shouting at people on the TV. I take everything on-screen personally now. “You’re being immature!” I’ll accuse the protagonists of teen drama Euphoria. “Hell of a job you did with those kids,” I berate Jamie Lee Curtis during The Bear, as if she and I are dragging each other through the divorce courts. I nearly went hoarse watching Djokovic in the Wimbledon final. “Why not joylessly grind out every point until you win, like a factory that makes trophies?” (When he lost, he made a touching speech to his family and I felt awful.)
Very charming, yes? I never used to be like this, a young-old man shouting at clouds. Is the problem that I can no longer handle jeopardy? I did an experiment, revisiting older shows I love and know inside out. Despite the lowered stakes, outcomes never in doubt – same crotchetiness. “Selfish and a bad friend,” I found myself concluding re Phoebe from Friends. I had a surprising amount of seigneurial advice to offer during a home projection of Lord of the Rings. Yet am hardly master of my own domain, sitting in the dark yelling “You’re a weak king!” at the wall.
