Well, the aforementioned Freeview box has arrived and there it sits, under the telly, gathering dust.
And why? Because, as so accurately predicted, we haven’t got a bloody clue how to make it work.
There are, of course, no instructions whatsoever, it being a mate’s cast-off, and all the casual talk down the pub about scart sockets, selection menus and all that stuff went straight over my head.
So me and the Head Gardener/Technician plugged things in where they appeared to fit and, although there is a faint pulse and the eyelids have flickered once or twice, the sodding thing remains stubbornly close to flatlining.
We have tried everything, from being sensible and using the remote control, to playing mellow music, stroking it and wooing it with gentle words of encouragement, none of which made it any more forthcoming. Even swearing and threatening mindless violence left it unblinkingly unconcerned.
And so we remain a four-and-a-half-TV-channel family, doomed to watch repeats of George Gently and the slowly dying embers of Ashes To Ashes which, come to think of it, apart from Have I Got News For You, is pretty much all we watch anyway.
So that begs the question, why do we need a digibox unless, of course, some bright spark has decided to turn off the normal signal from that big pole I can see atop the Mendips and replace it with some digital doobry-firkin.
And that’ll never happen.
Thursday 11 June 2009
Wednesday 3 June 2009
It's in the box
We, mes amis, are going digital, ho yus!
My telly viewing habits are the laughing stock of our local pub simply because we appear to be the only house in the area that has just four-and-a-half channels (Channel 5 we can get but watching it brings on snow blindness).
But after a couple of years of extracting the Michael, one of my techno-savvy mates is passing on his old Freeview box.
Now I’m not exactly sure what one of those is, nor at all sure how it works, but I am assured that, instead of just a handful of crap stations to watch, I’ll be able to choose from dozens of crap stations. Which is probably why the word “Free” is involved.
Anyroadup, my mate – we’ll call him Mez, mainly because that’s his name (not his name on the birth certificate, obviously, but what everyone calls him, probably because he’s Cornish from Bedford. No, we haven’t figured out that one yet either) – has promised to drop this wee gizmo round because his new telly has one built in, or somesuch.
And if we are to get any joy from it, he’ll have to plug it into the appropriate orifice while I make copious notes and take pictures of every step of the procedure, then he’ll need to demonstrate to us which bit of the remote control to use. Or does it, indeed, come with its own super-dooper twitcher?
Only time will tell but, given the disastrous results of previous excursions into the frankly scary world of technology, I fear it will all end in tears.
Probably mine.
Who will ever forget the Great Video Recorder Disaster of 1994, the CD Player Crisis of 96 or the more recent Death Of The DVD not two years ago?
Not me, as I am constantly reminded of that potentially explosive mix of technical gadgets, instructions translated from the Japanese by a drunken Icelandic bricklayer, my complete and utter incompetence, a suspicion that everything is out to get me and, of course, a short fuse.
No doubt there will be more to report on this in due course although, as there is electricity involved somewhere along the line, I should keep your eyes on the Births, Marriages and Deaths columns – just in case.
Meanwhile, the authentic retro shiny wooden record player has ceased to function, which could entail changing a plug.
It’s a dangerous world we live in.
My telly viewing habits are the laughing stock of our local pub simply because we appear to be the only house in the area that has just four-and-a-half channels (Channel 5 we can get but watching it brings on snow blindness).
But after a couple of years of extracting the Michael, one of my techno-savvy mates is passing on his old Freeview box.
Now I’m not exactly sure what one of those is, nor at all sure how it works, but I am assured that, instead of just a handful of crap stations to watch, I’ll be able to choose from dozens of crap stations. Which is probably why the word “Free” is involved.
Anyroadup, my mate – we’ll call him Mez, mainly because that’s his name (not his name on the birth certificate, obviously, but what everyone calls him, probably because he’s Cornish from Bedford. No, we haven’t figured out that one yet either) – has promised to drop this wee gizmo round because his new telly has one built in, or somesuch.
And if we are to get any joy from it, he’ll have to plug it into the appropriate orifice while I make copious notes and take pictures of every step of the procedure, then he’ll need to demonstrate to us which bit of the remote control to use. Or does it, indeed, come with its own super-dooper twitcher?
Only time will tell but, given the disastrous results of previous excursions into the frankly scary world of technology, I fear it will all end in tears.
Probably mine.
Who will ever forget the Great Video Recorder Disaster of 1994, the CD Player Crisis of 96 or the more recent Death Of The DVD not two years ago?
Not me, as I am constantly reminded of that potentially explosive mix of technical gadgets, instructions translated from the Japanese by a drunken Icelandic bricklayer, my complete and utter incompetence, a suspicion that everything is out to get me and, of course, a short fuse.
No doubt there will be more to report on this in due course although, as there is electricity involved somewhere along the line, I should keep your eyes on the Births, Marriages and Deaths columns – just in case.
Meanwhile, the authentic retro shiny wooden record player has ceased to function, which could entail changing a plug.
It’s a dangerous world we live in.
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