ripping jolly good time

I would like it noted for the record that I called Matthew Macfayden's stardom back in the fall of 2003, when I started watching reruns of MI-5 on BBC America during my thesis-induced insomnia phase. Yummmmm. Even with the silly Darcy wig they gave him for the new Pride and Prejudice, yummmm. How did this show never catch on the US? It's Alias meets 24 with accents, people!

I've been watching a lot more BBC America lately, in large part because I don't get home until 11:30 every night and there is only so much Family Guy a gal can watch in a week. Besides, Footballers Wives is FAR superior to Desperate Housewives and The OC. Old episodes of Monty Python's Flying Circus inspire actual laughter, whereas I watch The Colbert Report and find myself thinking "This is funny. I should be laughing at this. Why I am I not yet laughing. This is funny, right?" And do not even get me started on BBC News versus all of American cable "news."

I've always been a bit of an Anglophile, but with this new habit of turning on BBC America, I'm taking it to a whole new level. What once was WASPishness could soon be replaced by lapsing into accents, a condition that has already been known to happen upon the consumption of multiple glasses of wine and group viewings of Sense and Sensibility. Yet beneath the references to places that end in "-shire" or "-heath," the basic premise for this new hobby easily translates into American English.

I used to make fun of my lovely old roommate for her devotion to General Hospital, but now I find myself PASSIONATELY worrying if Tanya actually did kill Jason and what the hell is going on with Chardonnay's hermaphrodite baby and OH SWEET MOSES I CANNOT BELIEVE HAZEL KEEPS HER HAIR THAT COLOR DOES SHE REALLY THINK SHE'S FOOLING ANYONE BECAUSE THAT COLOR IS NOT FOUND IN NATURE. And I realize that, despite the accents (which are often impenetrable as organic chemistry), I have become just another girl addicted to her soaps. It's only a matter of time before I start swatting my mewling cat out of my lap, yelling "I'll feed you after my stories!" Despite all attempts at self-delusion, the accents really don't make it highbrow, any more than a gigantic sequin-encrusted blazer and the strongest Botox in Manhattan make Susan Lucci look a day under seventy-three.

I still wish someone else I knew watched this stuff though, because I would really like to engage in a dialogue about the implications of the Muslim suicide bomber episode and whether by naming one's child "Chardonnay" you predestine her to a future career as a topless model. These are the issues that shape our world, people. Erasing international borders one fictional hermaphrodite baby at a time.