While you're up

A few years ago I was working in a government department that had the responsibility for managing the medical treatment of injured workers.

The unit I was in was rapidly expanding due to the recent change of government which invariable led to paying expensive external consultants to come in and review, restructure, resize, redevelop and recycle old ideas as and repackage them as new initiatives. Whatever; it paid my mortgage and chocolate addiction and kept me relatively interested.

My cubicle was brand new with vestiges of plastic wrapping still taped to the edges and the technicians were still installing my new telephone line. After only a couple of hours surreptitiously popping the bubble wrap I’d stolen from the empty printer box under my desk, the phone rang.

“Good morning, this is the Medical and Allied Health Unit, Kath Lockett speaking.”
“Is this the Spicy Szechuan Home Delivery?”
“Er, no. I’m Kath Lockett, from the Medical and Allied Health Unit.”
“Can I have----“ (paper rustling as the caller presumably looked at the menu) “-----a serve of spring rolls, two Tom Yum soups, a satay chicken, steamed bok choy and fried rice?”
“Sorry mate, you’ve called the Medical and Allied Health Unit. What number did you dial?”
“What about a banquet for four, do you do that?”
“No sir. We are a GOVERNMENT DEPARTMENT. We can help you get well and back to work, but can’t feed you lunch.”
“But I want to place an order and it says here that I get a free bag of prawn crackers and home delivery if my order is more than twenty five dollars---“
“I’m sure it does sir, but you’ve called the wrong number.”

Every professional recitation of “Good morning, this is the Medical and Allied Health Unit, Kath Lockett speaking,” greeting-with-a-smile-to-indicate-my-genuine-interest-in-providing-quality-customer-service phrase was wasted on fending off hungry callers wanting chilli beef stir fry and wontons within forty five minutes.

It was almost as though they didn’t want to *hear* that they’d somehow misdialled the number and that I wasn’t about to drop the urgent report I was working on and rustle up some dumplings and spicy squid instead. My voice had worn out; as had my patience.

“Good morning, this is the Medical and Allied Health Unit, Kath Lockett speaking.”
“Is this the Spicy Szechuan Home Delivery?”

Pause. Evil plan about to hatch. “Why yes, it is. What would you like?”
“I’d like three Thai fish cakes, a beef and black bean, Mongolian chicken and a large serve of steamed rice.”
“No worries sir. Where would you like that delivered.”

It felt so good to put the phone down. And unplug it before I left for home a few minutes later.

I've always hated answering telephones. This is a bit of a worry really, seeing as it has encompassed a major part of all the jobs I've held for the past twenty years.

Maybe that's why, when the phone rings at home, I do my utmost to avoid answering it. It doesn't matter that it's likely to be someone I know, love, like and have been dying to hear from, I hate the bloody phone. That plastic chirruping machine that insists on interrupting my free time at inopportune moments, requiring me to respond to its summons like a drone.

The overseas marketing call has now reached plague proportions here in Australia and has done a great deal of damage to my already tenuous willingness to answer the phone. You can tell straightaway - a fuzzy sound, several seconds pause, and a strong Indian accent saying, "Helloooo, is that Mrs...?" The only time I ever get called "Mrs" is during a papsmear or by a telemarketing maggot.

The old cliche of a woman on the phone to her mates for hours and hours seems very outdated to me. My friends are more likely to see the phone as another chore on their never-ever-completed list of things to do around the house - none of us see an hour-long chat after 8pm as something fun. A few of us - myself included - have admitted that we sometimes purposely call when we know that the person is not likely to be at home. This enables us to leave a brief but useful message on the phone without the lingering chitchat we'd all desperately like to avoid.

Sapphire, at age almost-ten is still quite happy to answer the phone and is more than willing to stop what she's doing to run towards the chirruping. Bless her sweet, still-mostly-innocent and helpful little heart. I guess it's only a matter of a few years between the childish exuberance of now to when all of the phone calls will be for her anyway.

The hours between 5:00pm and 8:30pm are when we are at our most frenetic. This is when the after school - bathtime - dog feeding - rabbit entertaining - homework - music practice - playdate hosting - meal cooking, eating, cleaning up, dishwasher packing - lunch next day making - tidying up - sorting through the mail - putting out the rubbish - watering the plants - jobs are completed - all done in order to spend the rest of our waking hours relatively inert and quiet. Therefore, after the 8:30pm deadline that is Sapphire's bedtime, my desire to be in any way sociable is completely non-existent.

I would much rather be on the lounge, watching a DVD or hoping that 'Spicks and Specks' is on; that Love Chunks has filled my glass with a zesty cab sav and we have a plate full of snapped chocolate squares between us. Bliss, sheer bliss and completely deserved (in our minds at least).

Of course, that is when the pharken phone decides to make itself heard. And it is then, that Love Chunks and I end up having a kind of verbal tousle over who has to get up and answer it:"While you're up...." "Nah, it's never for me, it'll be your brother...." "I'm in the middle of something here, can you get that?" "I answered it last time!"

Thankfully, we both win and lose on relatively equal occasions, but it's still gives me a tiny thrill when it is LC who sighs dramatically, reluctantly puts down his glass and slouches out to the kitchen. When I've lost the Who Answers the Phone battle, the irony is that when it's been quickly established that the call is indeed for me and is from someone I like, I am always happy to have a chat and smile for ages after we've hung up, saying to LC, "You know, I really need to call her more often...."

Burn baby burn

Do you remember how I recently went to an audition to become a contestant on a game show pilot?

Well, last week I got a call-back. They needed fifty contestants to fill up the first three rows of the studio audience, waiting to be picked out at random by the still-nameless young host. Remember, it was for a pilot episode, so the film would never make it to air, there were no real prizes to be won but we had to pretend that there was and be utterly thrilled that we'd won..... absolutely nothing.

I was emailed some instructions - Rock up at 5:30pm with hair and make up already done (which means 'do nothing' in my book), no plain white shirts or outfits with stripes or dotty things, just neat and casual please. Eat before you arrive and be prepared to stay until 10:30pm.
At the studio it was all grit and no glamour. The same daggy big shed with shabby black curtains arrangement that the auditions were held in. There were a few familiar faces -
"Hey Nudie Rudie! I thought you'd get in, good onya!"
"Kiwi flight attendant who got told off for standing on the chairs - you'll kill 'em tonight!"
"Groovy grannie, well done!"

Apart from excitedly chattering amongst ourselves - and taking several loo trips via a stressed-looking sub-sub-sub-producer who'd escort us tiredly through the props department making sure never to let go of her clipboard and ergo pen - we pretty well sat there for nearly two hours.
By this stage - 7:30pm - my stomach was grumbling. Well, more like whingeing and crying, to be more precise. Yes, I'd eaten afternoon tea at 4pm (a banana and a Farmers Union Iced Coffee), but a bottle of 'You'll Love Coles' water and a handful of Fantales provided by the program wasn't quite doing the trick. It felt like the inside of my gut was slowly being squashed and sucked down into a swirling chasm of lethal digestive juices, churning and sinking amongst the acidic ocean like an underpaid extra from The PerfectStorm. I was seriously considering sneaking out across the road to the deli to grab a sandwich and a nice hot cup of...















.....but nope, too late. The contestant-wrangler arrived with several more clipboard, head-set and bum-belt wearing black-clad guys and said it was Time. Time to turn off our phones and leave them and our bags behind before we went into the studio. Time to finish signing our lives away in which we'd promised never ever to reveal the name of the show, what games were played or who the host was. Time to reapply any lip-gloss that had worn off. Time to Put Our Crazy Games Faces On and Be Highly Energetic and Ready For Anything! ....... Lordy, what had I signed on for; I'm the girl who blushes if she has to ask what ticket to buy at the train station!

The next three hours were a bit of a blur. There were many games of musical benches being played as various black-clad clipboard-clutchers shifted us around according to sex - "Boy Girl Boy Girl", colour "We can't have two bright pinks sitting next to each other," and, sadly, age. "You need to sit here next to Todd, he's only 21." Oh.

The host was indeed rather nervous and the cameramen kept bumping into each other as the Floor Manager choreographed angles and zooms for each movement onstage. More Fantales were thrown out by the warm-up guy, an amiable chap named KB who did a sterling job of keeping 50 extraverted contestants and another 200 sugared-up audience members under control, still interested in the proceedings and willing to remain in our seats and clap as wildly as we could when told to do so by the Floor Manager. My hands ached; as did my face because the mindless grin plastered on meant that my over-stretched cheeks were starting to push up into my eyes.

Out of respect for the contract I signed, I can't reveal what I saw, but the evening did feature:

• A live goat who didn't disgrace itself or the model it was working alongside;
• An outstandingly hunky male model who got the biggest round of applause for the night (and that was just because he was wearing bathers and sitting erotically astride a jet ski);
• At least ten human beings standing around wearing head phones, eyebrow piercings (maybe it's a job requirement) and belt battery packs for every person actually doing some active work such filming, adjusting lights, operating the space-agey set doors or retouching the host's make up and hair; and
• The realisation that too many Fantales leads to a stomach ache, excessive clapping, inane screaming and utterly useless 'advice' to playing contestants about which prize, door, number or box to select.

Yes, it should be clear to you all by now that no brain cells were injured during the course of the evening, nor were any specifically required. One old guy sitting next to me (with the 21 year old boy, pretty girl in green and chubby multi-mum separating us of course) muttered, "This wasn't what it was like on 'Sale of the Century'," but he was being ignored by the screaming nanna on his other side, "Pick Me! Pick Me! Pick ME - I'm HILARIOUS!"

And if the night wasn't already proving to me that - should the show be picked up and actually be filmed ready for viewing I might want to run in the opposite direction or consider applying for the Witness Protection Program - there was another announcement.

An English producer held a microphone to tell us that he was planning to use the pilot to pitch to the UK networks. With his sixty-something, acorn-shaped body, husky voice, Ronnie Barker glasses and that North England, "Oooh errr Reverend" accent that indicated a background in Brighton Beach stand-up nights, he said, "Now I need to you all to get up and BOO-GIE."


















"BURN BABY BURN......" Well buckle my head to the side of an ant hill and butter my face with jam...... !!!

I was trapped, hemmed in from both sides with no escape in front or behind. Several cameras were rapidly rolling up and back along the floor and via the steps and everyone around me was doing their best Kermit Arms impressions, shaking their funky butts, whooping it up, cracking imaginary whips, rattling their racks (the women) or thrusting unashamedly (the men - except the Sale of the Century guy, who did the nervous 'step together, step back' that was usually my shy standby).

There was nothing for it, so I danced. I whooped. And clapped to the beat. I even...... you must understand how difficult it is for me to type this ...... did the John Travolta Finger Point move.

(Nods empathetically in shame and acceptance) I know. In time the horrors will fade. They just have to.

Post-migraine Plugger without a Pumpkin = My own natural Halloween costume

Mr Migraine paid me his usual, all-too-regular visit; waking me up at 6am with a king hit to the head and a total loss of my morning. It's left me feeling groggy and hungover (but without the fun of the night before unfortunately) and, as such, in a good mood for a rant.

We blokes and sheilas here in Australia don't celebrate Halloween. Never have, and - if I had my way - never will.

Admittedly, thanks to a force-fed diet of Yank sitcoms from Bewitched, Happy Days, Family Ties, Home Improvement and Friends, most of us can name more US presidents than we can our own Prime Ministers (me included. No, not as a Prime Minister, but one of the telly-tards).

As such, we know rather a lot about Halloween and the tradition of little kids wandering around the neighbourhood trick-or-treating. Bless their sweet hearts: it's all fun when the candy is good, but if some psycho inserts razor blades or wipes the lollies on his arse an hour before handing them out then I'm sure some kiddies will regret not trying a 'trick' instead of the 'treat' they received.

We also know about Thanksgiving, and most of us are under the impression that Americans will virtually risk their savings, relationships, sanity and lives in order to make it home for turkey (surely the worst roast 'bird' in the civilised world) and some kind of pumpkin pie thing that doesn't sound too appetising to me. It seems to be more revered than Christmas which, as someone who is rather fond of presents I don't have to buy, wrap or pay for - seems rather odd.

Until a couple of years ago, our proudly Australian doorstep had never been darkened by any you-beaut ankle-biters asking us for free sweets or threatening to play a 'trick' on us. This has been a great relief considering that we may not yet have gone shopping that week or were on diets and could only offer them sun-dried mango slices or cucumber that wastarting to turn slimy at the bottom of the vege crisper.

Not so last year - about a dozen of the little beggars hammered away on the door and I was too taken aback to reply with 'Eat S**t and Die You Bastards,' but instead muttered something about seeing what we had and ventured out with the flavoured Chup-a-chups from old party bags in flavours that my daughter Sapphire clearly didn't enjoy. There the piss-weakly-clad mites stood, accompanied by their parents, who, being around my age, wouldn't have ever participated in such an American event during their own childhoods. The bloody nerve....

Sadly, my own daughter Sapphire was indoctrinated into the suckiest culture of them all as well, having been invited to a Halloween Party by one of her school mates last year. She went as 'Zelda the Zombie' courtesy of some bargain $2 eye liner and black lipstick that expertly complemented the white and red face paint I still had from my ill-fated (and tragic) efforts at face-painting at the kindy fete some years earlier.

I also took her to K-Mart and willingly shelled out cash to buy an oversized black t-shirt and shorts that we ripped up into shreds to support the concept of just having clambered out of a five year old gravesite. *Sigh*, who was I to pour my cynical lemon juice on her innocent anticipation? Yes, she even persuaded me to buy a few extra bags of lolly pops, fruit tingles and redskins for her fellow Halloweenie horrors who knocked on our door.

At her friend Simone's party tonight, she's settled for a witch's get up - much easier to do with my left-over 1990s-era black dresses and last year's make up not touched since, well, last year. I too have bought more blue-tongued zombie chews, Wizz Fizzers and sherbies in sad acceptance of our doorbell being frequently rung tonight.

Perhaps I should accept this newish trend as one which is overdue. No, not our celebration of everything American but that we've had our Guy Fawkes' Fireworks Night banned for nearly thirty years now, and desperately need a pointless, celebratory replacement. The subsequent declaration of 'Fireworks Night' as being illegal was thanks to scores of stupid Aussie bogans and boganelles who were drunk on Summerwine and Southwark tinnies and ended up blasting off their faces and fingertips as they flung Catherine Wheels and Roman Candles into the middle of their BBQ salad table or inside the rocking Sandman of their best mate.

At least Halloween is less dangerous - in a life-threatening sense, if not a calorific one.

Warwick Capper topless? WHY??

Things have been a mite stressful these past few weeks, so it has been a while since I've ventured to StatCounter to see how people were finding me. Above and beyond the regular number of the usual visitors and blog explosion cruisers was this - Warwick Capper Topless. It had been entered in many, many times and inexplicably, kept leading to this 'ere blog. I have no idea why* - I've never featured him, let alone mentioned him being topless and I'd prefer to keep it that way.

Still scratching my head and leaving Adam the electrician scratching his over why our sensor lights refused to turn on at night or blazed on all at once during the day and sometimes also started up the loo fan, I left him being silently stared at by Milly and Skipper and collected the mail. Yes, my fortieth birthday looming like a dried white dog turd on the footpath of my horizon on the 3rd of November, but I really didn't need a specifically addressed piece of junk mail from Laubman and Pank informing me, "It's now TIME for you, Katherine Lockett, to get your eyes checked. Ageing rapidly causes the eyes to deteriorate." Happy Birthday to me.....

Farewelling Adam, I again sat at the laptop. As with most writers, I'm constantly expecting rejection but to get nothing, not even an acknowledgement is really frustrating, especially when the editor's PA has given you their address to send stuff to and you've been talked up to said editor by someone with a bit of clout. I re-read some work I was particularly proud of and noted, with a sinking stomach, that I'd actually written Sunday Fail instead of Sunday Mail. That might explain the lack of contact then.

After power-walking my red-faced embarassment into scarlet-faced sweat on the treadie to nowhere, I showered, ate and felt much better. The sun was shining and the scent of the roses in full bloom on the way to the school were particularly lovely. I'm one of those dags who actually does stop and sniff roses.

Picking up Sapphire from school and sucking on an iceblock with her in the backyard is always part of the day I look forward to. We tell each other funny stories; ooh and aah over how cute the dog and rabbit are and invariably do our own peculiar version of arts and crafts - today it was Sapphire crocheting a bird's nest (long story) and me doing a very bad job of mending an old black chemise she wants to wear as a witch costume. Life was pretty nice and it would do me a helluva lot of good to keep remembering it.

Later on, as I was back on the net looking at Melbourne houses for sale, she was in her room doing guitar practice. After the usual scales and songs set by her music teacher, down the hall wafted, 'I was made for loving you baby, you were made for loving me....' KISS. On recorder, self taught. By a nine year old. In 2008.

She eventually popped out for a cold milk and milo and to ask me a question. "What's pole dancing, Mum?" An answer - despite not being approved of - was at least provided, but no solution was available to her next question: "Mum, where can I find a skeleton of a kangaroo?"

After dinner - a hastily prepared frittata courtesy of our chooks Hermoine, Luna and Ginny and with fresh herbs from our vege patch - I sat down to watch the news. To be honest, I don't watch the news, I'm really only interested in the weather forecast which appears in the last two minutes. Inexplicably and with monotonous regularity however, I end up paying attention to the boring blather on ore stocks and FTSes and when the actual weather segment is on, I vague out and miss the entire segment.

"So is it going to be hot tomorrow Mum?"
"I dunno love."
"But you just sat there and watched it!"

Perhaps I just need a block of Toblerone for my birthday. This one in particular - four kilograms for the bargain price of $149. I can't believe that my local, humble K-Mart has two.

* Perhaps even more distressing was that the search topics 'Lengthy Labias' and 'Bonnie Tyler's dog' also led here.

Day Twenty Two - Appreciative August

The telly

I'll be honest. I love television. More accurately, I love watching a great television show; one that you make sure your arse is on the couch for. "Is Sapphire in bed yet? Spicks and Specks is about to start."

As new parents, Love Chunks and I ventured into the DVD, widescreen, cinema-surround sound game relatively early in its availability because we knew that it would form the bulk of our audio/visual entertainment. We are not normally the must-rush-out-and-get-the-latest-electronic-doodaddery kind of people, but we realised that the likelihood of us being able to see something together outside of the home was non-existent, so why not make the experience of seeing things at home a much better one.

Besides, the pain of slowly limping to the Northland Hoyts eleven days after Sapphire's birth, to see the very ordinary 'The Phantom Menace', then come home, stay silent and wait for Love Chunks to see the evening session before we could talk about it was tragic to say the least. I'd been stitched 'the from the nave to the chaps' as Shakespeare described in 'Macbeth' and had to take in a cushion to stay the full course of the movie.

Enough digression, back to the joys of television. Ironically, weeks can go by and the remote control would be lucky if it was troubled by me more than twice a week due to the utter lack of anything appealing to slump in front of. As a kid and teenager, if this was the case I'd still put something on and endure it, but these days I'd rather reach for a book, a DVD or rehash a series that I really did love. Such as.....

Blackadder (esp series 2) - my family first discovered this series when channel seven in its wisdom decided to play it over the non-ratings summer holidays of 86-87. I taped each episode, lent the tape to my apricot-cutting mates and we survived the monotonous ordeal of holiday labouring work by quoting silly lines at each other. Even twenty years since the show, whenever I see Tony Robinson talking with archaelogists on BBC's 'The Time Team' or living out 'The Worst Jobs in History,' I still think, "There's Baldrick!"

Scrubs - like low rise jeans and Nirvana, I was a late-comer to this show and discovered it only in the $10 bargain DVD bin. JD (Zach Braff) is brilliantly funny and prepared to get dressed up, sing, humiliate himself and let us question his sexuality in this ridiculously joyous show. For example:

Janitor: Some hooligan keeps disconnecting the alarm. I told Security to look into it. But no, no, they'd rather catch the guy who's stealing organs from the transplant ward.

Turk: This is the reason why your headache didn't go away: That's actually pronounced analgesic, not anal-gesic. Sir, the pills go in your mouth.

J.D.: (voiceover) I guess what they say is true the people you work with really do become your family. Like your brother, and your sister in law, (shot of Turk and Carla)

......or that cousin you have funny feelings for (shot of Elliot)

......and the crazy angry uncle everyone sort of hopes isn't coming this year (shot of Dr Cox).

J.D.: Dr. Cox, If you want you can come down here and hang out with...

Dr. Cox: Nobody talk, just drink.

J.D.: (voiceover) Ah uncomfortable silences and alcohol... just like Thanksgiving at home.

Seinfeld - when we lived in Darwin, poor old Love Chunks was doing the night shift at the weather bureau and I was working normal hours at the Dept of Education and Employment. The car would literally pull up in the driveway at 6:30am on his return, and I'd get in it at 7:30am to drive back into town. Anyhow, one Saturday afternoon I was watching an episode of Seinfeld I'd taped earlier in the week, and LC was sleeping (the way the shifts were figured out, he only got one weekend off in every six). He came stomping angrily out of the bedroom and told me off: "You're laughing too loudly!". That was Seinfeld. Then and still now.

The Office (UK version). When we first saw this mockumentary, we marvelled at the brilliance of Ricky Gervais as David Brent - he played him exaggerated enough for us to laugh and yet realistic enough for us to squirm, wondering if we ourselves had ever behaved like that and were unknowingly despised for it. My favourite character was the perpetually bemused Tim, madly in love with Dawn the receptionist, and battling it out every day with second-in-command (in the army reserves if not at Wernham Hogg Paper Products.

David Brent: Look at this - "Dutch girls must be punished for having big boobs". Now you do not punish a girl, Dutch or otherwise, for having big boobs.

Gareth: If anything they should be rewarded.

David Brent: No, they should be equal.

Entourage - I'm not the demograph for this US show (being the wrong gender and age) about a spoiled A-list actor with his hangers on. It's rude, the women are most definitely only decorative plot devices and there's a helluva lot of rap music as the soundtrack but it's hilarious. Crackingly fast dialogue with four characters that are essentially selfish and immature but I love them anyway. Johnny Drama (Kevin Dillon) is especially hilarious. "I'm actually a green belt in karate but I'm wearing yellow because it makes my eyes pop."

Flight of the Conchords - their realistically tiny New York apartment; Brett's impeccable taste in home made windcheater designs; their deadpan comments; the spunktastic New Zealand tourism office; and for their songs 'Business Time', 'Sello Tape' and of course, Brett's Footloose-fantastic Angry Dance...... Great lyrics "There's people on the streets getting diseases from monkeys; yeah that's what I said, junkies with monkeys...."

Friends - it's rather dated now, but I'll admit that I eagerly devoured each episode when it was played on prime time Monday nights. I even surfed the web to read the scripts of episodes already played in America, but wasn't interested in reading about Courtney's struggle to have a baby; Jennifer's marriage woes, Matthew's drug addiction or Joey's unfaithfulness. Still aren't.

Wallace and Gromit (the first three shorts) - I loved these when they first debuted and it's a double pleasure to see Sapphire enjoying them now. I'm even prouder to hear her spot-on version of Wallace's Northern English accent when the peanut butter and vegemite is slid over to her for breakfast before school: "Crackin' toast, Gromit."

BBC's version of Pride and Prejudice (1996) - the only one of my two shows that are non comedy. I've always been a huge Jane Austen fan and think that this series started the era of more Austen TV and films that really did their best to respect and complemented her writing and daring world view (for her time, anyway). Witty, wordy and delicious. And yes, Colin Firth. One dark look, that dip in the pond, his perfectly pompous first proposal.....

Survivor (any series). My reality weakness. Yes, the premise is the same in every series - mostly attractive, overly-confident and painful Yanks forced to fight, back stab, win ridiculous events and scheme to get rid of each other. Like Abba, the Cadbury Crunchie and tinned spaghetti on toast, I love it. Seeing models shrink to slices of beef jerky whilst still owning a set of grapefruit-sized knockers is visual comedy at its finest.

Frasier - This show was treated so shabbily by Channel No-Nuts Nine and the repartee between pompous psychiatrist Frasier and his brother Niles was so much fun to hear. I'm just waiting for their season DVDs to go down in price.

(Frasier and Nile's father) Martin: You listen to Bulldog's program?

Niles: Yes, Dad, I can't sleep nights till I find out who hurled what ball through what apparatus.

Niles: Frasier, do you remember the time the Kreizel brothers tied me to their Great Dane and lobbed meatballs down their gravel driveway?

Frasier: I told you Niles, I would have helped you, but their sister was holding me down.

Niles: How could I have missed something so obvious?Frasier: Well, it's not so hard to believe. You were fifteen before you discovered there was a correlation between being beaten up every day and going to school in a Panama hat.

Other shows that I'd love to re-watch (if only to show me that their humor is now out of date, or irrelevant) include:

• The Two Ronnies (some kind of 'best bits' selection)
• Red Dwarf (as with Messrs Corbett and Barker)
• That 70s Show
• Black Books - Dylan Moran and Bill Bailey - heavenly humour!
• Hollow men (getting better with each episode, especially Merrick's character)
• Cheers
• Arrested Development

Shazzbutt!