Kill Your Television. Then Your Heroes.

I’m working from home today as I managed to ruin two of my tyres this morning, while driving to the office like a cock. I’m a terrible driver. Less Lewis Hamilton, more Christine.

Still, big shout out to the Real Men at “Get Motoring” in Princes Risborough who put on my spare tyre for free, after I singularly failed to manage it myself.

I remember reading an article several years ago how some males are Men and others will always be Boys. Sean Connery? Man. Brad Pitt? Boy. I’m firmly in the Boy camp.

That last one might be the most unintentionally gay sentence ever written.

As God is obviously not a fan of my bank balance, my television blew up this week as well. We’re reduced to watching stuff on the 15” portable. Which wouldn’t be a problem, other than my kids have abnormally large heads. They sit two feet away from the screen and obscure everything for my Better Half and I.

So my “research” (Or “watching endless re-runs of Futurama and the Simpsons on Sky” to be more accurate) has taken a knock. And “24” starts next week!

But no television is probably a good thing for one simple reason. Iggy Pop advertising insurance. There’s something depressing to reach 32 years of age and still have people you respect let you down.

Ron Asheton, the Stooges' guitarist, died this week. They authorities say it was natural causes. I reckon he flicked on the telly, saw his lead singer extolling the virtues of online applications and keeled over in shame.

Your heroes will only end up disappointing you, kids.