Beerstalker

Beady-eyed bastard

Just saw half an hour of the first episode of the new Sherlock series. It was only half an hour because it was so intensely annoying that I'd rather watch a loop of Anne Widdecombe taking a shiff shit than sit through the whole thing. 
I know, I know, everyone is banging on about how good it is. Fuck knows why. I fear the writers tainted the nation's Quality Street with whatever evil it'd take to make viewers enjoy a script that could only have been the product of gargled bong water. 
Problem is, if Sherlock is a cracker it's buried beneath such an avalanche of quips and cocky one-liners that even Hollywood would think it hyperbolic. The half hour I saw (and I make no apology for not suffering the full hour) looked like the product of a scriptwriter's boozy challenge: endless wisecracks, retorts and taunts that made for a staccato dialogue with sod all benefit to the story. If it had wanted to be unpredictable it could have had Sherlock speak a full sentence in any tone other than a man picking at his vasectomy stitches.
Parts of that regretful  half an hour were painful to watch. You could actually see where Steven Moffat, the writer, was trying to be clever rather than a great storyteller. It was excruciating to the point that I'd have had more fun listening to my nails being dragged down a blackboard after they'd been wrenched from my fingers.
Look, it's not that I'm hankering for crap telly. I'm not. I'm all about The Killing and Braquo too. But neither am I willing to donate my precious time to some over-played BBC love-fest that reeks of smugness. I have better things to do, like blog about the snippets of TV I've seen in order to make wild generalisations about what the fuck my license fee is blown on. If you ask me, it's elementary.