Greg Dixon: Boob tube no cure for acerbic eye

COMMENT

As soon as I heard, I went straight to my doctor. He and I don't see each other very often because I hate him. That, and he whinges about me smoking. Still, there's nothing quite so liberating as lighting up in a doctors waiting room - though I made an exception this time because I was worried, very worried. I needed his help not his ashtray.

It seems, at least according to an ad run in this newspaper, that I'm suffering from a condition known as "acerbic eye". Apparently I apply it to the good and the bad on the box.

This was news to me. I have certainly had watery eye, blood-shot eye and bags under my eyes. I've been one-eyed, green-eyed and just have a look at the new photo byline - an eye sore. But acerbic eye? Frankly it sounded painful, potentially terminal and quite probably embarrassing.

My doctor, as usual, wasn't particularly sympathetic. He's from the hard medicine school of quackery and sent me on my way with a steep bill and a lecture on the evils of eating salted snacks while lying down. So I've had to spend the remainder of the week lying on the couch eating Salt-Os and attempting self-diagnosis by training my alleged acerbic eye on the box.

My research unfortunately revealed other previously unknown conditions. I now have something called status anxiety as well. English writer and TV presenter Alain de Botton's three-part series on TV One might well have been a flashy, mid-brow run through of contemporary philosophy for friendless saps who don't go out on a Thursday. But Status Anxiety has simply made modern life harder by pointing out that modern life is a fruitless search for love from the world. "Do people think I'm a winner?" de Botton asked. Not with my hideous acerbic eye, I muttered to an empty lounge.

Meanwhile TV3's free-to-air coverage of the All Blacks versus the-owners-of-the-world's-longest-most-boring-most-tuneless-national-anthem, aka the Argies, suggested I might be suffering from something else. Perhaps it was commentator Hamish McKay's blokesy drone, his tiresome need to be right all the time, his tough-guy commentator posturing or his "banter" with "AJ" and "Bull". Maybe it was because, despite the tries, the All Blacks played like three-legged dogs. Whatever the cause, I missed nearly the entire second half of the Argentina test after sudden, recurring attacks of shuteye.

Can it be that television induces narcolepsy? Certainly three-hour IQ quizzes or shouting matches about race relations might. But now it's rugby too. If my eye weren't so acerbic, it might fill with tears.

It's just as well Headliners is on every night. With my ever-growing list of ailments, this hopelessly awful and tragic attempt by TV One to woo "yoof" viewers provides the sort of laugh therapy previously only offered by the late, and lamentably brief, comedies, The Last Word and Big Night In.

So bless Flatliners, it's a curative for many ills. But unfortunately it has made no real difference to my acerbic eye. And after a week of distress my advice to you is this: Be careful what you watch, you never know what you might catch.

THE DIXON LIST


Defining telly moment of the week: Sunday's Janet "mad-dog stare" McIntyre asking Coral Watson, new bride of imprisoned double-murderer Scott, whether their marriage had been consummated. What was she expecting? A quickie after the quickie ceremony while the guards nipped out for a ciggie? Or was she just indulging in some sort of weird, prison sex fantasy similar to Seinfeld's George Costanza?

Pick Of The Weekend: Celebrity Treasure Island. Who says Pakeha have no culture? It's all here: the beach holiday, the male-female bitching and the chance to ogle babes without the missus noticing.

This week I'll be watching: Road To Athens. They've found the one convicted of manslaughter, but what about the litter bug, the tax cheat and the red-light runner? Rename it Road To Perdition.