Barmy

I am in a low-rent daytime telly stupor. I am watching Jeremy Kyle "DNA Test Special". I'm not sure why, call it a social experiment: how much can I endure before my brain turns to sponge. After a long period of consideration (about 3.5 seconds) I have formed the opinion that the world would be a far less unpleasant place if everyone who spoke with a Liverpool or Tyne-Tees accent were herded together and shepherded over a cliff, just in case. At the very least, Kyle's researchers will have to look a bit harder for their subject matter. I cannot for the life of me understand the attraction of trawling the underclasses to laugh at their lack of life skills purely for entertainment. The audiences for these programmes are surely the modern equivalent of those who would pay for the pleasure of visiting Bethlem Royal Hospital.

Later, while visiting Sharon in hospital, the whole ward is royally entertained by Joyce, a very sweet old lady with a terminal condition and prone to slipping into periods of dementia, angrily berating a fellow visitor for upsetting her son. A son only she can see. We all laugh and I feel ashamed. Joyce falls asleep.