Game Over!

Game Over!

I don’t watch television anymore.

Once upon a time, I would settle down for an evening and kick off my boots, grab a dog or two, and snuggle down for an hour or two of fluffy TV. I could easily watch a show about cookery or how to improve my living space without threat of those culinary and home-improvement tools being used for anything other than whisking up a soufflé or smoothing down a meter or two of roughcast plasterwork.

Then along came Game of Thrones.

I watched fourteen minutes of episode one and quite early on found the setting, the names, and the language not to my taste. I left the room to make coffee. The next scene I happened upon, where two characters were in conversation, a child joined them in the room, and after a brief moment, one of the characters nonchalantly pushed the child backwards through an open window, presumably to her death.

The characters continued their conversation and I had had enough.

That was the last time that I would spend my evenings in the living room, watching TV with my boots off, snuggling a dog or two.

I make coffee, rush in with the floral mug my wife loves, and then make a swift exit, stage left. It may be Game of Thrones that’s playing. Even the pitch black battle scenes of Season Eight make me run! Or I may just happen upon a scene from Walking Dead where the blood is flowing.

I just can’t take it.

We run a small antique store in The Cotswolds, full of fabulous treasures and delights.

One of my sons sometimes helps out on the second floor in the men’s department.

There was a wonderful Saturday when the shop was bustling on both floors, and a charming young man and his eye-catching partner came to my counter to settle up for a couple of evening gowns and a cigarette case.

"Helpful guy up there," he said, "We had a really good chat…"

I took his payment card and recognised his surname. His sister was a good customer of ours.

We exchanged pleasantries and with the payment complete, the young couple left the shop to join the Saturday crowds of Stroud.

Seconds later, my son ran down the stairs two at a time and stood facing me hardly able to speak.

"That was Theon Greyjoy!"

"What? The young guy with the gorgeous girlfriend?"

"Yeah…"

"Nah, that was Alfie Allen… Lily’s brother…"

"I know… I know… Game of Thrones, Game of Thrones…"

"Ah."

I still haven’t seen a complete episode. And I probably never will. I’m a writer as well as an antique dealer. And a musician. With a band. I never have enough time…

Who has the time?

I can’t imagine that Martin hung around watching the American Idol series for hours upon end. Or maybe that’s exactly how he spends his time. But I doubt it.

So, while I’m bashing out prose and poetry, my other half is bingeing on GOT in between coffees and my squeamish squeals.

Maybe those brief flashes of man's inhumanity, coupled with those dark cinematic moments will inspire. Sometimes, one brief and lucid moment is all it takes to fuel an entire novel.

I dream in colour.

I hear that Martin is writing another series. It will be lost on me. I can’t invest. Four minutes on YouTube tops for me.

I hear that Alfie is working on another show. Well, if he needs a Tweed jacket, he’ll know where to come.

Game Over!

Out.