Since we were as poor as church mice – er, let’s say freethinking mice – in the seventies we didn’t get a colour telly until 1984. With it came a remote control and a whole new world opened up. Or rather, an old world closed down. For the remote had a mute button.
From that day to this we have seen - but not heard - any TV commercials. I am aware of what Hovis did to Dvorak but we remain happily unaware of the aural evidence. Better than that, we are deaf to the exchanges between young men ogling beer and women in pubs, to the music that accompanies the ludicrous publicity about cars and to the blandishments of the man with false teeth selling sofas.
The mute button has even strayed into the news bulletins and we are no longer cognisant of England soccer fans’ views on Hegel and Leibniz. Not all guests to chez Bonden are comfortable with our censorship. One niece’s hand reached for the remote during what she regarded as the unnatural silence. But I am an unyielding host.
Latterly I have become an equally unyielding prophet for another button on the remote. “Do you realise,” I say unpleasantly to many a neighbour who has invested in a TV screen the size of a french window, “real people do not have flat heads suitable for playing ping pong on and that cars are taller than those flat-headed peoples’ waists. Try the aspect ratio control.”
From that day to this we have seen - but not heard - any TV commercials. I am aware of what Hovis did to Dvorak but we remain happily unaware of the aural evidence. Better than that, we are deaf to the exchanges between young men ogling beer and women in pubs, to the music that accompanies the ludicrous publicity about cars and to the blandishments of the man with false teeth selling sofas.
The mute button has even strayed into the news bulletins and we are no longer cognisant of England soccer fans’ views on Hegel and Leibniz. Not all guests to chez Bonden are comfortable with our censorship. One niece’s hand reached for the remote during what she regarded as the unnatural silence. But I am an unyielding host.
Latterly I have become an equally unyielding prophet for another button on the remote. “Do you realise,” I say unpleasantly to many a neighbour who has invested in a TV screen the size of a french window, “real people do not have flat heads suitable for playing ping pong on and that cars are taller than those flat-headed peoples’ waists. Try the aspect ratio control.”
But I remain a prophet without honour outside my own sitting room and my circle of acquaintances is diminishing.
