Having not watched television for nine months and already growing bored of the 1,000-piece jigsaw of General Alfredo Stroessner (part of the ‘Vigorous Leaders’ range from Waddingtons), my wife suggested — for a novelty — that maybe we should take in the new political thriller starring Hugh Laurie, called Roadkill.
We have fond memories of Laurie from previous dramas and are both mildly interested in politics, so it seemed an agreeable idea. ‘What side is it on?’ I asked, with a note of warning. ‘BBC One,’ replied the missus, and we looked at each other glumly and I said: ‘Oh Christ. It’ll be a woke BAME-athon. Isn’t there an old episode of Midsomer Murders on somewhere, one starring John Nettles and with DS Troy being disparaging about homosexuals and gypsies?’ But there wasn’t — I think they’ve all been purged.
So we watched Roadkill and continued watching even as that dread word appeared in the title sequence, the word which popped up from its form, ears twitching, a look of utter self-righteousness on its face, the word which should have made us turn off immediately, the awful, killer word: Hare. Hare. Hare again. Hare today, Hare tomorrow. Is there a worse playwright in the country?
And indeed considerable misery stretched out before us — a script devoid of even the slenderest vestiges of wit, nuance, intelligence, tension and truth. Like being harangued for an hour by a needy and not very bright adolescent. Viciously biased, hideously right-on, moronic in its assumptions, devoid of that most crucial thing for a play, drama.
How thick does Hare think we are? He clearly believes we need educating about the vileness of the Conservative party and he is the man to do this, from his Hampstead mansion. And each time he dribbles out more of this sub-Marxist guff the BBC is ready and waiting to lap it up.
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