In the annals of British comedy (that would be ‘annals’, double ‘n’, not ‘anals’ – get your mind out of the sewer and back into the gutter where it belongs), there can be few programmes as beloathed of the British gay as Last of the Summer Wine.
Yes, My Family needs a swift kick up the cunt, the one with Jasper Carrott and someone in a wheelchair was dire beyond reason and Only Fools and Horses was about as funny as a skid-mark on a hotel towel. Actually, not as funny as that.
But it was Last of the Summer Wine that took the crunch biscuit. A bunch of old Yorkshire tossers getting up to japes? We think not, milord. Depressing, always on a Sunday to coincide with your Sunday night blues and set in a timeless world where Hob Nobs had not been invented but twats in flatcaps had.
And now it’s gone! Hooray and hoorah!
We are currently hanging out flags, high up on a rickety step ladder, with wrinkles in our stockings while shooing away a cat that is making the step ladder unstable with a comedy feather duster to the sound of uproarious canned laughter that bodes ill for the studio soft furnishings.