I stayed at my parents' house last night, and they wanted to watch Midsomer Murders. "You don't look too impressed," observed my dad, observantly.
Jen and I only have two rules about what we can watch on telly: (1) no soaps; (2) no Midsomer Murders. We came up with rule 2 having watched a few episodes and noticed a common weakness running through every single plotline:
"No, it's OK, I'll watch it," I said to dad, "but I'll tell right now you who did it: the nutter with the totally ridiculous motive."
That's the big problem with Midsomer Murders you see (apart from the acting, I mean): it always turns out that the person who dunnit has a motive you could never have seen coming in a million years, because they are, it transpires, totally bloody nuts. Like the time the murderer turned out to be the leader of the bellringers, who was killing off the opposition so that he could win the bellringing competition. As if. (And, yes, we did make the obligatory dead ringers jokes, before you ask.)
Two hours later, and the murderer was revealed: the Welshman with a pathological hatred of doctors.
I kid you not.