Currently holed up in my bedroom. There are two, hyped up, twelve year old boys running around the house, talking backwards fluently, and having a fine old time.
I’m staying well clear of it.
The upshot being, I have now watched three episodes of The Professionals in a row, and may have absorbed rather a little too much seventies telly machismo into my bloodstream. On Monday, I might possibly be addressing my colleagues by their surname, or just their employee number, and barking stuff like, “Rogue truffle rolling into unauthorised zone. Neutralising threat. Over”, whilst leaping over the counter.
But we’ll deal with that when it comes.
The show recently came back to my attention because of the sad passing of Lewis Collins, but I think I’ve continued watching The Professionals because it neatly encapsulates the time when we lived in the station house. It’s a perfect snapshot of late seventies to early eighties Britain, with the dodgy hair and clothes, and that grey, grimy murk that seemed to seep over everything. The realistic, non-glossy tone of the show reminds me completely of a time in my life, that I would dearly love to remember more clearly. When I tell Dan and Alex stuff about living in the station house, and there being the six of us and the dog, and the cat that ran away, and the dead budgie that had his own theme tune… well, it sometimes feels like I’m making it up. It just sounds like someone else’s life now. Maybe wallowing in 70’s collars and homoerotic, simmering masculinity dressed up in polo necks is bad for me, but I’m not about to stop any time soon. I miss those days; the green rotary dial phone, the bats under the bridge, the break dust on the windows… and watching telly with my family.
I have a feeling we actually owned a copy of this too.
Did we? Or maybe I AM making that up. It’s a highly appropriate gift idea for children as you can see…
What child in his/her right mind wouldn’t want to colour in a picture of Gordon Jackson pointing an automatic weapon at them. Be careful not to go over the lines or he’ll blow your brains all over the rumpus room wall.
Cracking likenesses, eh? I would probably have spent hours carefully crayoning Martin Shaw’s bubble perm.
Anyway, got to go. The twelve year old boys are hungry apparently.
Love you always,