Under pressure | 28 April 2012

Rest easy on your deckchair, Delingpole, for I come in peace. Your column is safe — from me, at least — because this week I have made an unpleasant discovery: your job is really hard, and I don’t know how to do it.

It’s not the watching that’s so hellish, it’s deciding what to watch. It took me two days just to plough through the listings, for Pete’s sake, with a sense of panic rising in my bosom. What sort of locum would I be if I missed the week’s televisual pearl? What if the hours, days and nights I spent in front of the box were wasted on the wrong programmes?

The responsibility that comes with this position is fearsome and, what’s worse, unending. As long as the sun never sets on television — as long as that particular factory whistle never blows — the television critic’s work is never done.