Should anyone ever ask you why you think “Ally McBeal” is boring, irrelevant, annoying crap worthy of being employed for torture in Chinese or other horrible prisons, and why the idea of a unisex toilet is just about the lamest joke since the invention of the slippery banana peel, well, in that case, just gently reply with the three words “the young ones”. Wanton destruction. Surreal seduction. Rotting vegetables chatting away in the sink. Madness music. That’s what we call TV. That’s what we call fun. Yes. Yes. You want examples? Here’s a couple of Rick’s poems from this classic BBC series. They rock. They zwock. If you don’t like it, go lock yourself up in that unisex toilet and wait until your hallucinations come dancing along.
Today, I saw a dog,
Yes, a dog.
Talking to a pig,
Yes, a pig.
They were on the pavement,
Not brotsky or crotsky or drotsky or frotsky.
What do you think you’re doing, pig?
Do you really give a fig, pig?
And what’s your favourite sort of gig, pig?
Or the black and white minstrel show?
[First, an extreme close-up of Rick squeezing a spot/boil/pimple]
And sometimes down
But always around.
Pollution, are you coming to my town?
Or am I coming to yours?
We’re on different buses, pollution
But we’re both using petrol.
What are you doing, Neil?
To make a meal, Neil? (it’s surreal)
From totalitarian vegetables.
How much does it cost, Neil…?