Whoever invented the idea of TV series on DVD must have been a parent of small children. My husband and I have long since liberated ourselves from the fickle scheduling of the commercial networks and from the tyranny of little feet in the hallway that force us to mute the TV and miss a vital plot point.
For a long time it was The West Wing. I can’t say we remained untouched: we did a lot of walking and fast-talking and developed a tendency to suddenly launch into inspiring speeches making mention of Our Noble Forefathers and The Roots of Democracy.
Then we had a few series of Boston Legal (cue: lengthy ethical discussions, cigars and whisky on the balcony) and 30 Rock (I became smart, sassy and Tina Fey-esque and my husband wanted to wear an NBC Page’s uniform).
And then finally, seven shameful years after it was first released, we discovered The Wire, which I honestly believe is some of the best television ever made – Dora The Explorer’s Pirate Adventure aside, of course, which can make grown men weep and go to war.
Of course, knowing there were only five series of The Wire and wanting it to last forever and ever and ever, I told my husband that we might have to eke it out a bit by mixing it up with Series 4 of Boston Legal. However, switching between the two, has resulted in this “series soup” in my mind which I call “Baltimore Legal”. For example:
SPADER: What the fuck’s up with that shit, Denny?
SHATNER: Oh, I’m just a humble motherfucker with a big-ass dick, Alan.
And yes, this should give you some indication of how much effin’ and blindin’ there’s been in our household since we’ve been watching The Wire. Honestly, if the Australian Communications and Media Authority caught wind of it, they’d slap a “Contains Strong Language” warning sticker stuck on our front door (next to the black cross to indicate that the Gastro Plague lies within).
CUT TO: our recent winter holiday (now known as “Spew Break” – thanks, KC), where I found myself being woken up the first night by the water pump turning itself on and off almost every minute. In the quiet country air, it was so loud that it sounded like a gun going off. And in my sleep-deprived state, it was like I was lying in bed in the low-rises of West Baltimore, staring up at the decaying foam mattress of the bunk above, with words like “water-pump torture” and “fuckin’ fucker mother water pump fucker” swarming through my head.
The next morning, my husband’s explanation about why the water pump would make such a noise so frequently went something like “The water pump… blah blah blah… syphon drawing up water blah blah blah… virtually undetectable water leak…blah blah blah… pressure switch ” but all I could think was “I’m gonna light that ass-sucker up like a mother fuckin’ Christmas Tree”.
And sure enough, come Night Two, I sent my husband outside to take that mo’ fo’ pump down. Of course, if we had only been watching Boston Legal, I might have felt compelled to give an impassioned plea on its behalf (e.g. “it was only doing its job” and “if we take down every water pump that makes a noise, then we may as well say goodbye to civilisation as we know it”.)
But no, we were channeling The Wire and that night, the pump was silenced for ever more (well, at least until morning). I think I even heard my husband mutter “It’s all in the game, yo” as he did it.
Because it is. All in the Game. Yo.
The NDM wishes to advise readers that she and her husband still have three and a half series of “The Wire” remaining and that the ACMA’s Strong Language warning will uphold for the duration. After that, she’s planning to detox with the BBC’s “Pride and Prejudice”, starring Colin-Fucking-Firth.