Pamela Wade: A pox on those TV people who can't keep a secret

Children, English literature students, general readers, moviegoers and sports fans: what do these groups have in common and how do they differ from TV viewers?

Special consideration is the short answer. Think back to the hoo-ha when the latest Harry Potter book was published after widespread speculation as to which character it was that J.K. Rowling famously cried over killing off. Did you read a single review that did not include right at the beginning the promise that the name would not be revealed?

Critics punctiliously avoided dropping the slightest hint, lest they spoil the story for the children avidly reading their way through that doorstop of a book.

Reviewers of movies and books for adults are equally careful not to give away too much of the plot; even the Penguin Classic edition of Mrs Gaskell's North and South, a worthy Victorian novel that is hardly a nail-biting page-turner, warns: "New readers are advised that this Introduction makes the details of the plot explicit."

It is particularly pleasing to see that even desiccated academics still acknowledge that the main purpose of reading a book is to be told a story.

This generous consideration is extended, too, to sports fans waiting to watch delayed television coverage of matches. They are warned when the score is about to be announced, so they can stick their fingers in their ears and hum loudly. In Britain, they mutely flash the results on the screen after telling fans to "look away now".

All this is wonderfully heart-warming, thoughtful and sympathetic behaviour on the part of faceless corporations and hard-bitten hacks, neither group in any other respect noted for its sensitivity.

So why is it that the hapless television viewer misses out on the kid-glove treatment? What is the difference between a movie you go to see at the cinema and one you watch from your armchair?

Why is an award-winning seven-part serial about a boy wizard more worthy of plot protection than an award-winning 26-part television drama series - or even a 40-year-old soap opera?

Any Coronation Street fan who was able to watch last week's dramatic events with no prior knowledge of what was going to happen must have been living in a cave.

Those of us in the real world reading the newspaper, listening to the radio and queuing up at the supermarket checkout next to racks of women's magazines with their plot-explicit covers had the story thoroughly spoiled for us, no matter how hard we tried to preserve our ignorance.

The details of dastardly Richard's attack on Emily and Maxine were common knowledge long before the programme was broadcast, and the shock and horror we should have enjoyed as our reward for sticking with the programme through tedious months with Deirdre's neck and Gail's chin, were completely deflated.

Although part of the problem is, of course, that we are six months behind Britain - enough time for plot leaks to reach us by sailing ship - it is undeniable that, for many people, keeping a secret is much less fun than broadcasting it.

There is no sharper illustration of "knowledge is power" than the woman at the hairdresser glorying in telling all about the gloves and the crowbar, or the third-former bursting into the classroom shrieking "It's Sirius". (Sorry, kids, the grace period is over: read faster next time.)

But even if Coronation Street was broadcast in both countries simultaneously, and we could avoid the tell-tales, we would still have our enjoyment of the stories wrecked by the sadistic spoilsports who put together the trailers for all our programmes.

These people are genius condensers of complicated plots: they are able to extract from a programme that may run for one or two hours exactly the snippets that will tell, in less than 30 seconds, the entire story, concentrating particularly on the twist in the tail - 24 is a perfect example.

Series finales attract special attention, presumably because an audience that has stuck with a programme for six months cannot be trusted to tune in for the last episode unless repeatedly browbeaten with trailers wrecking the surprise climax that the writers have been building towards for weeks.

On the face of it, this appears counter-productive. Why bother to endure all the advertising in order to watch some programme that has already been professionally summarised for you? We do, though, for the same reason that we go for Sunday drives: to enjoy the scenery along the way, even though the destination is known.

It's a pleasure of sorts, although vapid and unrewarding compared with the voyage of discovery that any story-telling experience is supposed to be.

How ironic that the advent of advertising for potency pills has coincided with the deliberate emasculation of the programmes.

* Tapu Misa returns next week.