I love Frasier. I have a T-shirt that says “Frasier” on it in the Seinfeld font, a stupid internet mashup joke I nonetheless find charming and wear sincerely, and which multiple people in my life have told me they find actively irritating. I once seriously argued with myself about buying a shirtdress printed with a still from the show, priced at more than £160. I would be interested and probably appalled to know how many hours I have clocked up rewatching episodes when I’m in a funk.
Why? I don’t remember seeing any episodes of Frasier when it was originally airing. What was there to delight an eight-year-old in a show about a divorced radio psychiatrist and his newly disabled father? My mum is a fan, but I don’t remember watching it with her, either. Yet Frasier feels like a language I have always spoken.
