Guilty pleasures.

Now I've had to give up the naked kitten juggling
(the neighbours got out an injunction) I've had to look
elsewhere for my guilty pleasure.

I found it.

Professional Masterchef and Ripper St on Monday
nights give me that buzz I've been craving, oh fuck yes give it to me good.

Firstly, the joy of Monica and Greg/chefs/gorgeousfood/sickonaplate/talent/arrogance/ignorance/sweatypanic/whywhywhywhywhyaregirls soshitatthisstagewhywhywhytheresnoreasonforthis/frustration

Then, over on BBC 1 (and I'm trembling when I write this) the wondrous, melodramatic Victorian cop show with uptight hero/lushvisuals/freaks/darkness/sex/love/johnmerrickyesthatsrightthebloodyelephantman!/ whichremindsmegreatmakeupandeffects/andthentheelephantmanismurdered/
coulditbebemorehighvictorianmelodrama?/noidontfuckingthinkso/andahotdirtyamericantoboot

I must lie down now, please pass my smelling salts.