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A confused Millennial tries to… watch a show week-by-week

by Josh Gardner, who buys vinyl but isn’t sure why

I LOVE a big TV show. There’s nothing better than sitting down with the new series of Umbrella Academy for ten hours straight. 

Yeah, you have to write off the next day because you’re knackered and irritable, but it’s so much more immersive. And you’ve no real choice. If you take 11 hours spoilers are all over TikTok.

However, Amazon’s trying this weird new thing where they’re showing new sci-fi must-see Cobalt Winter one episode a week, every Friday. And I’m not afraid of innovation, so I signed up for the ride.

Week one

Fuck’s sake! That was actually good, and it’s over? What, I just have to wonder what happens next, do I? This is bullshit.

The most annoying thing is you have to find something else to do instead of watching the next one. I had a wank, ate a Pop Tart, had another wank, then I was out of ideas so I went to bed early.

Week two

Okay, I now have no idea who any of these people are. Come on. It’s been a whole seven days. But I catch up on the wiki and I’m back into it – briefly. Is Kimmy an android? Seriously, cliffhanger endings are a form of abuse. It’s like a season finale every week.

It’s driving me mad that I’ve got to wait 10,018 minutes to find out. I might have a shower to knock 10 minutes off it. Jesus this is annoying. It’s only 10,017 minutes now, so that’s something.

Week three

There’s a party going on round at Noah’s, but like a junkie jonesing for a fix I’m in front of my laptop trying to find out if the AI controlling Nu-Atlantia is actually an augmented human brain. Thanks a fucking lot, Amazon. If Noah and them are all doing edibles you can stick your high-quality original drama up your corporate arse.

Week four

I keep talking about the show, speculating about what might happen, and my mates are bored with it. ‘Just watch it,’ Sophie said, and I had to explain I can’t. They’ve started mocking me. They call me Mystery Boy.

Anyway, it’s on tonight and the Inheritors are killing all organic lifeforms, Sheldrake got his mind wiped by a combat droid and I’m stressed. Seriously, trauma vibes. I’m going to the GP for tranquilisers. He’d be cool with that, right? Young people’s mental health is a priority, and I’d only be on them till Friday.

Week five

Well that was shit. Everything that happened last week was in Kalia’s bottle universe. If I’d know that I would never have worried, and I wouldn’t have suffered erectile dysfunction I’m pretty sure. The waiting’s ruined my life.

Week six

The absolute bastards. I spent yet another week waiting, and the concluding episode does nothing but set up the next series. Nothing was resolved, I’ve wasted six weeks, and now it’s a year until season two. That’s 259,200 minutes.

It was a brave experiment, even if my dad does claim that’s ‘how all shows used to be’. I’ll stick with binge-watching, thanks, like normal people. Still, it’s only 259,194 minutes if I have a wank and a Pop Tart. May as well get started.

Restaurant prices to eat in the pissing rain: the gammon food critic tackles street food

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who thinks Enoch Powell deserved a fair hearing

STREET food? What, like a burger van parked in a town centre at pub chucking-out time for all the pissheads? 

Apparently not. Apparently it’s the hot new thing in London, there’s an event on only half-an-hour up the M40, I’m a broad-minded type and it can only be shit once so I’ve got nothing to lose.

First problem is there’s nowhere undercover and it’s pissing it down. Because we’re not in Phuket or Cancun, for which I offer silent thanks, but fucking Coventry.

What’s on offer? Nothing British, that’s for bloody sure. No baked potatos, no chippy van. The first stall is selling Asian fusion whatever that is. Loads of woks and frying plans that don’t look too clean.

I’m informed the food tastes best if the pans are ‘seasoned’ through use, which basically means they can’t be arsed soaking them in the sink. Move on.

Then there’s stone-baked pizzas, which is a drug reference. I’m not getting high off a Napoli laced with super skunk. And they’re ‘artisanal’ which I boycott on principle. I can make cheese-on-toast with a bit of ketchup at home.

La Cocinita’s Tex-Mex, all tacos and burritos and enchiladas which sounds like a breed of dog. And yes, I am suspicious about where they source their meat. It’s also no doubt a money-laundering front for a cocaine cartel. I can’t be getting mixed up in Breaking Bad shit at my time of life.

I went with the gourmet burger, though what’s thrillingly gourmet about slapping a gherkin and orange sauce on it is beyond me. You know what a real gourmet burger looks like? Ketchup, mustard and burnt fried onions. It’ll give you crippling indigestion for a week but you know where you are with it.

At eight quid it’s still a massive rip-off but I’ve been here two hours and I’m starving. How was it? Not too bad. Better than McDonald’s, indistinguishable from any city-centre buger chain. Hardly worth the fucking effort.

My first foray into street food will be my last. Too much pandering to racists who’ll eat any cuisine but our own, not to mention all the vegan crap. Halfway home I had to pull onto the hard shoulder to void my bowels, following the footsteps of, as I explained to the police, Sir Alex Ferguson. Sign of the bloody times.

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