Well, they say that good things come to those who wait. Whilst that most assuredly is sure of the die hard fans of Tool, Guinness, the Higgs Boson and (we hope) the Star Wars franchise, it's perhaps less applicable to this here blog of mine.
Yes, it's been a while since last I donned my helmet of Internet-based vitriol. Too long since I last hammered out my mundane thoughts into words on your screens for you to snort at in disgust. I like to tell the Internet on a regular basis that I'll "get my act together" and "be more consistent" but we both know that it's not true. Hell, you know it's not true as well. Don't you, lovely reader?
But fret not, because true to form, I'm back and it's a long one.
We're all familiar with the hit TV show Sherlock. Whether you're amongst the very small number of my friends who cannot stand the show, or what appears to be the rest of the world in worshipping the programme as some form of messiah for all BBC television, we've more or less all of us seen it. For a good many of us, we've lived the consistent two years between each instalment of the show, forgetting about it for about twenty months before the adverts start to return to our screens, minds and hearts (how good was #sherlocklives ?).
Note, this blog will contain spoilers for seasons 2 and 3. You have been warned. If you've not seen the TV sensation that is BBC's Sherlock, go and watch it all and come back when you're done. Go on. I'll wait. I'm writing this in smallprint, because hey. What's life without whimsy?
The Confession
I am getting slowly more annoyed with how popular Sherlock has, is and will become. Those of you who I've condemned as hipsters to be first against the wall when the revolution arrives will have to pause now after reading that to calm yourselves. Perhaps you'd like to adjust your ridiculous glasses, and rebutton the tweed jacket that you've just torn off in disgust. That's it. Now take a refreshing sip of Pabst Blue Ribbon and we'll get back on with the preceedings as though I've not just confessed to being a massive hypocrite and I'll explain.
Where was I? Ah yes!
I am getting slowly more annoyed with how popular Sherlock has, is and will become. When the first season came out, it did so quietly and unassumingly. Much like the rest of British culture in that respect. After three weeks, Sherlock went away again and the world went about its business. Two years later, we experienced the rush all over again.
Perhaps you, like me, had prefaced the glorious return with a marathon of the first season. And like me, mayhaps you introduced a friend or six to the phenomenon. Lather rinse and repeat for the third season. Only this time, all of your friends have introduced Sherlock to five or six of their own friends. You involve them in your marathon of the first two seasons (nine hours in one go... Don't you have anything better to do?) and then gorge yourselves on the offerings of the third.
And herein lies the problem.
You, dear reader, like me (I imagine) watched Sherlock from the off. We have from the very outset, been used to having to wait two years between each new instalment of Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat's retelling of the tale. We don't mind this wait. In fact, we relish it a little. Time to mull over some of our favourite scenes. Time enough to discuss in hideous, sickly detail exactly why the angle at which Holmes jumps from the roof explains his miraculous survival. We are the lucky ones.
It's the people we introduced - foolishly, with hubris in our hearts - maybe even the second generation of fandom that we helped to create are similarly lucky. They too have had the two years' wait to find out precisely what happened to Sherlock and whether or not he was wearing a parachute that blends into the colour of the building behind him as he fell *ahem* sorry, getting distracted there. Except, we all know that's how he really survived.
No, it's the people that we all introduced just before the third season that are the problem. These people, who watched all six episodes on Netflix or through slightly more illegal means. Who perhaps only had to wait a week, a few days, or even a few short hours before finding out what has become of our beloved sociopath. They have been spoiled.
They have not learned the patience that you and I, dear, beautiful, wondrous reader, have learned.
The Internet it seems, is overflowing with articles, blogs, comments, podcasts and videos discussing the future of Sherlock. As well they should. After all, it is one of the BBC's triumphs! But it is the slightly dispondant, demanding, desperate, dunder-headedly deserving way in which these are written and spake, that truly sparks my ire. All of them seem to centre around the theme that the fourth part of the saga will not be with us until 2016, and that this is too long of a wait. All of them are just obsessed with the fact that it will take two more years to release the equivalent of three films. Never mind the fact that both of the star actors now have huge roles in major franchises, or that the writers have other projects to keep them in BMWs, fancy restaurants and Armani suits (I'm just guessing at these. In my head, writing something as successful as Sherlock means that they must be richer than Bill Gates by now).
No, instead they whine at how two years is such a long wait. And lets face it, I'm not nearly as eager to see how Moriarty survived as I was to see how Sherlock had. My point is, that when I read such articles as these... I find myself thinking "God, I wish Sherlock weren't so popular... I liked it back before it was cool to think Benedict Cumberbatch is sexy and Martin Freeman looks distressing with a moustache."
It's at that stage that I find something decidedly conformist to do and join the masses in reading A Song of Ice and Fire after it became cool.
As I write this, sitting in my linen, festival clothes, sipping at a vodka-laced hot chocolate, it occurs to me that I'm probably not the first to talk about, write down, or even think about this... But bronze is important too guys. And as with this blog itself, as well as the subject matter; better late than never.
Yes, it's been a while since last I donned my helmet of Internet-based vitriol. Too long since I last hammered out my mundane thoughts into words on your screens for you to snort at in disgust. I like to tell the Internet on a regular basis that I'll "get my act together" and "be more consistent" but we both know that it's not true. Hell, you know it's not true as well. Don't you, lovely reader?
But fret not, because true to form, I'm back and it's a long one.
We're all familiar with the hit TV show Sherlock. Whether you're amongst the very small number of my friends who cannot stand the show, or what appears to be the rest of the world in worshipping the programme as some form of messiah for all BBC television, we've more or less all of us seen it. For a good many of us, we've lived the consistent two years between each instalment of the show, forgetting about it for about twenty months before the adverts start to return to our screens, minds and hearts (how good was #sherlocklives ?).
Note, this blog will contain spoilers for seasons 2 and 3. You have been warned. If you've not seen the TV sensation that is BBC's Sherlock, go and watch it all and come back when you're done. Go on. I'll wait. I'm writing this in smallprint, because hey. What's life without whimsy?
The Confession
I am getting slowly more annoyed with how popular Sherlock has, is and will become. Those of you who I've condemned as hipsters to be first against the wall when the revolution arrives will have to pause now after reading that to calm yourselves. Perhaps you'd like to adjust your ridiculous glasses, and rebutton the tweed jacket that you've just torn off in disgust. That's it. Now take a refreshing sip of Pabst Blue Ribbon and we'll get back on with the preceedings as though I've not just confessed to being a massive hypocrite and I'll explain.
Where was I? Ah yes!
I am getting slowly more annoyed with how popular Sherlock has, is and will become. When the first season came out, it did so quietly and unassumingly. Much like the rest of British culture in that respect. After three weeks, Sherlock went away again and the world went about its business. Two years later, we experienced the rush all over again.
Perhaps you, like me, had prefaced the glorious return with a marathon of the first season. And like me, mayhaps you introduced a friend or six to the phenomenon. Lather rinse and repeat for the third season. Only this time, all of your friends have introduced Sherlock to five or six of their own friends. You involve them in your marathon of the first two seasons (nine hours in one go... Don't you have anything better to do?) and then gorge yourselves on the offerings of the third.
And herein lies the problem.
You, dear reader, like me (I imagine) watched Sherlock from the off. We have from the very outset, been used to having to wait two years between each new instalment of Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat's retelling of the tale. We don't mind this wait. In fact, we relish it a little. Time to mull over some of our favourite scenes. Time enough to discuss in hideous, sickly detail exactly why the angle at which Holmes jumps from the roof explains his miraculous survival. We are the lucky ones.
It's the people we introduced - foolishly, with hubris in our hearts - maybe even the second generation of fandom that we helped to create are similarly lucky. They too have had the two years' wait to find out precisely what happened to Sherlock and whether or not he was wearing a parachute that blends into the colour of the building behind him as he fell *ahem* sorry, getting distracted there. Except, we all know that's how he really survived.
No, it's the people that we all introduced just before the third season that are the problem. These people, who watched all six episodes on Netflix or through slightly more illegal means. Who perhaps only had to wait a week, a few days, or even a few short hours before finding out what has become of our beloved sociopath. They have been spoiled.
They have not learned the patience that you and I, dear, beautiful, wondrous reader, have learned.
The Internet it seems, is overflowing with articles, blogs, comments, podcasts and videos discussing the future of Sherlock. As well they should. After all, it is one of the BBC's triumphs! But it is the slightly dispondant, demanding, desperate, dunder-headedly deserving way in which these are written and spake, that truly sparks my ire. All of them seem to centre around the theme that the fourth part of the saga will not be with us until 2016, and that this is too long of a wait. All of them are just obsessed with the fact that it will take two more years to release the equivalent of three films. Never mind the fact that both of the star actors now have huge roles in major franchises, or that the writers have other projects to keep them in BMWs, fancy restaurants and Armani suits (I'm just guessing at these. In my head, writing something as successful as Sherlock means that they must be richer than Bill Gates by now).
No, instead they whine at how two years is such a long wait. And lets face it, I'm not nearly as eager to see how Moriarty survived as I was to see how Sherlock had. My point is, that when I read such articles as these... I find myself thinking "God, I wish Sherlock weren't so popular... I liked it back before it was cool to think Benedict Cumberbatch is sexy and Martin Freeman looks distressing with a moustache."
It's at that stage that I find something decidedly conformist to do and join the masses in reading A Song of Ice and Fire after it became cool.
As I write this, sitting in my linen, festival clothes, sipping at a vodka-laced hot chocolate, it occurs to me that I'm probably not the first to talk about, write down, or even think about this... But bronze is important too guys. And as with this blog itself, as well as the subject matter; better late than never.
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