Self-medication, according to Wikipedia:

“is the use of a drug with therapeutic intent but without professional advice or prescription.”

In this instance I am not talking about drugs of either the prescription or indeed illegal variety, I’m not talking about alcohol or nicotine; I’m not even talking about friend of the perpetually wired caffeine. My drug of choice in this particular instance is television.

Now you might not consider television to be a narcotic, and indeed in a literal sense you’d be right however I refer to its undoubted mood altering and indeed mind altering properties. I tend to watch television in one of two ways, either drama in a somewhat superficial manner or gobbling down the informative content of factual programming.

However every once in a while I like to get really properly obsessed with a particular program. Not just randomly, but every few years I feel like my much underused “emotional muscle” needs a workout and tv is the way I choose to do it.

In 1992 Sky was only a few years old, still broadcasting in analogue and requiring a large dish to receive. For all those reasons and more at the time we weren’t a satellite household. So I was stuck with 4 channels and precious little in the way of overnight entertainment. However those dark late hours of the night were thankfully filled with LA Law and therein began my first foray into episodic co-dependency.

The West Wing with its excellent writing and superb characterisation was my next obsession some years later. It was an hour of my life that was absolutely not to be interrupted. I’d slip effortlessly into the world of power and intellect and relationships that the show painted. My mood would fluctuate with the highs and lows of the story.

Grey’s Anatomy was rather appropriately my next broadcast medication, a medical drama much more about relationships than medicine. The lows were good and visceral. I particularly enjoyed, if that’s the right term, the way the characters baggage would so regularly derail their lives. You could argue that I related to that, and maybe I did.

My current, that is to say latest, televisual obsession is an Australian drama; character-driven stories with a very rich visual feel, and an exposed humanity to which I’m quite attracted. Having found some clips on YouTube, I’m now mail-ordering DVD’s from another continent (and another region, thanks to the idiots at the MPAA and their ilk) to scratch this particular itch.

So expensive it might be, oh the joys of import duty and royal mail charges, but it’s completely legal and unlikely to affect my health and that’s why television is my drug of choice.

I caught the first few minutes of the televisual travesty that is “I’m a celebrity get me out of here”, a program so utterly low rent that I don’t usually watch it for the same reason that I don’t shop in Iceland; the consumption of either makes me gag.

Now I realise the target demographic for this show isn’t aerospace buffs, but I had to laugh at the mismatch between the opening credits and the programme itself. In the opening sequence various CGI helicopters are shown flying around, which look very much to be Bell 430’s (a modern version of the Bell 222 of Airwolf fame). However the shots of a helicopter actually landing “in the jungle” was a Robinson R44; an aircraft that most “real” helicopter pilots would rightly dismiss as having more in common with a lawnmower that a genuine turbine driven rotary winged craft.

I’m sure there’s some sort of mixed metaphor in their about celebrities not being what they really are and trying to present themselves as something else. Not to mention desperately trying to kick-start their flagging careers. Although on that last point I may be smashing the windows of the glass house, so I’d better tread carefully.

Incidentally, if you’re wondering why I was watching this programme it was because it was the only thing on that wasn’t sport during the last 10 minutes of today’s workout.

A quiz is by definition a test of knowledge ascertained by asking a series of questions. Years ago television quiz shows followed that format, get a bunch of people into a studio and ask them questions. Then declare the one who answered most as the winner and give them a small sum of money, some cheap trophy or even just the satisfaction of winning.

Now in the multi-channel wasteland, it seems to stand out a quiz needs some sort of moronic hook; the chaser, the fuse, Chris Tarrant as his infuriating pauses. Also I know these show are cheap to make, but do we really need to plumb the depths search for presenters? Ex soap actors, mediocre comedians and retired sports stars, do not good presenters make.

I suppose for balance I should say I do watch some quiz shows; Only Connect is a brilliantly simple classic team quiz, but the question style provides a little twist and Victoria Coren does an excellent job giving the show equal quantities of pep and substance. Also, who can fail to love the quintessential British quiz University Challenge, and if you’re wondering I have absolutely no problem with individual Oxbridge colleges taking part. Mastermind, however, no longer a fan; firstly John Humphries is no Magnus (although that’s not his fault) and when “Harry Potter” becomes a specialist subject I’m afraid I’ve had enough.

So why is there nothing here? You promised it'd be done by now so what's going on? Well long story short I broke my keyboard. It wasn't percussive maintenance, it was intentional destruction. Normally this wouldn't be a big issue but heavy-weight Cherry keyboards (to which I am particuarly partial) it appears are area denial weapons. The entire computer room is covered in sharp, pointy little keyboard shards.

Me... Vacuum... it'll take a day or two!