In My Pre Natal Era I was a Holier-Than-Thou, "I don't own a TV actually" prig. Now You'll Regularly Find Me Swimming in Televisual Excrement

I've always concurred with the view that reality TV is, "the lead in the water pipes that sent the Roman's mad", i.e. a toxic, brain-eroding cerebral pollutant. People with self-esteem issues fabricating nervous breakdowns in their underwear, to lend themselves gravitas and sympathy just doesn't meet my definition of entertainment. Pre-fatherhood, I wouldn't have watched reality TV with my worst enemy's eyeballs, regardless of whether it was the abominable "Big Brother" or the marginally less despicable "The Apprentice". In fact, without sounding like a holier-than-thou "I don't own a TV actually" prig, I barely watched telly at all back in my prime; I was too busy having it large (translation: sitting in the pub alone, looking forlornly at women).

Then along came "The Destroyer of all Energies", aka my son. In these post-natal days, I am usually to be found plastered to the couch by 9pm, a pint of red wine in my right ...

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