Torchwood

Having sated myself with an excellently prepared, though not universally appreciated, Spanakopita (Spinach Pie), the will to move or do anything that would diminish the comfortable and reassuring feel of successful digestion was thoroughly abated.

SO I found myself switching on th’elly (Northern parlance for the cathode-ray tube of horrors), I figured I’d see whether the BBC is continuing to wipe it’s corporate arse on the hard earned pennies I’d used to purchase my license fee. Being the sci-fi fan that I am, I thought I’d give the ubiquitously advertised Torchwood 15 minutes of my time; 15 minutes I’ll never get back.

I should have known that anything that is “spun off” from the complete and utter garbage that was latest Doctor Who, could only be, well, complete and utter garbage. Like Doctor Who, the series looks like it’s been filmed with a bargain-basement “camcorder” using props from a playschool broom cupboard and the four worst actors since those in my primary school’s version of Dick Whittington; oh, and it’s situated in Cardiff.

If it weren’t for the mindless interjection of the odd random swearword, spurting blood, same-sex snogging and a sex craved alien that feeds off “orgasmic” energy, you couldn’t have convinced me that this was a series for adults. If this typifies the level of sophistication in current British sci-fi, as I can only imagine they must have commissioned a focus group to rate previews, then it is a sorry day. I guess this is what happens when scientific-illiteracy reaches epic proportions.

Of course, it seems the series is targeted at adults, and I’m afraid that the only people who could possibly enjoy such tripe are likely to have a dribbling problem, either from their frontal lobotomy or their thorazine drip.