Jonathan Hart is mean. He lulls you into a false sense of security by being daft and endearing, and by hurling himself gleefully into all manner of dangerous situations, armed only with an increasingly bedraggled suit and a glamorous wife. And then he turns around and kills poor Manolito. I mean, sorry Jonathan. I do like you, and granted I saw Hart To Hart before I saw The High Chaparral, but let's just be clear. If you're going up against Henry Darrow, I'm going to be on his side. Every time. Even when he's playing a drug-dealing police captain caught up in an unfathomable bit of plot. 'Cause he's Henry Darrow; and Manolito Montoya out-cools a whole lot of people.

So, another Sunday, another distinct lack of Torchwood. I've taken to whimpering extensively at ten o'clock each week. So far it's not working, though I admit that I didn't really expect it to. Might help if there was something else worth watching on TV at the moment, but the only thing I seem to watch now is Never Mind The Buzzcocks. Any other viewing I do is of long-axed shows on DVD, which isn't quite the same as having never-before-seen episodes of something shiny and new. I will always love my books, but I defend my right to gawp mindlessly at a TV screen every once in a while. Just as long as the Manolito-killing is kept to a minimum.



Manolito Montoya. Kindly refrain from killing him.
Thank you.
.

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