Suffering from mild existential depression, you decided to watch the entire TV series of Minder again
(Being from the borough / manor as it were, the various shots of Londinium most ancient resonate to/in the core of your distributed neural network. That is, your dear old mum (gawd bless ‘er) used to drag you half way around its sprawling necropolis every week, when she dropped you off at friends houses before work. These are the very sights, sounds and signs of your past as a slightly worried child, waiting in the cold flats of strangers for your mother to pick you up and take you home for tea)
This thankfully upped the intensity of your existential depression to an acceptable level – nothing worse than Mild E.D. The cause was something to do with the quality of the light in Endland: expressed here in Minder, it’s the slow 70’s feeling of washed out naffness – a distinctly unremarkable story of misplaced human endeavour / endless financial struggle set against a backdrop of unremitting anonymity, highstreet blues, brown carpet / orange curtain’d naffness, old dirty brick, hyper-Ballardian flyovers and imposingly apathetic Brutalist inner city architecture, contrasting heavily with suburban blandness and working class back alley abandonment
To watch Minder is to immerse oneself in a minor fringe universe of dodgy deals and back handers (of all sorts) populated by cheap cigar smoking spivs and ex-contender hard men for hire – all on the quiet, ask no porkies, no receipts available, instant finance, poncing around, twits in some upper class (gangster) nighclub, mugs and wallies each n’ all, endless corrugated galvanised iron cups of weak tooth-stained tea and zero future prospects: a forever saddening half-world, direct from hand to mouth to inside jacket pocket, say no more around the houses, depends who’s asking, a famous poster of that fit tennis bird scratching ‘er arse on the wall of your second ‘and car dealership hut, ‘orrible bacon & egg butties slathered w/ HP sauce on white bread, bring the van around the back Terrence, import-export no VAT, get your collar felt by the filth today as yet another day dawns lonely and grey. A life in remission but the final sentence (for your average punter) permanent
In short, an overcast outlook – a long stroll down the degraded memory palace to / of nowhere-anywhere-forever – a laundry list compiled by ‘er indoors – dusty bunches of ‘ooky clichés for a Pahnd to the era-displaced tunes of a mis-tuned Joanna down the rub at the end of the frog. Do what, Arfur?