Imagine what it’s like being ineptly fucked by Jonathan Creek. As his tragically off-rhythm stroke fails to make an impact in either of the twice yearly bunk-ups Polly affords him she rolls her eyes as she reads a copy of Grazia behind his back. And for the remaining 363 days of the year the chemistry between them is akin to that of aluminium when coated with a tenacious oxide: totally inert. In the defining long-turd relationshit of her life she has settled as assuredly as lobe deposits settle in tectonically confined basins (in accordance with topographic compensation). That’s the reality puke Polly has to wipe up every day so no wonder she finds life stressful. She begins to have nightmares she last had as a child about a shadowy figure called the Sandman. She gets a shudder in the bedroom and that’s the only shudder she’s getting in the bedroom while she’s married to this sack of shit. The Sandman was a lovely childhood character who blinded children by sprinkling sand in their eyes to force them to sleep. Somehow Polly’s subconscious has twisted this into something sinister. What a sick bitch.
Polly has settled as assuredly as lobe deposits settle in tectonically confined basins.
But not as sick as Leonard Corbyn, local lottery winner turned benefactor who’s up on charges of touching up broads like his name was convicted sex offender and filthy Nose, Marlon King. The superstitious dirt worshipping villagers have just named the community centre he donated after him so it all looks a bit rum like Max Clifford‘s children’s foundation. And here’s the weird thing: after some old fuck Eric Ipswich (David Gant) is taken into hospital a brusque redecoration of his digs reveals the EXACT SAME lottery numbers with WILL WIN below buried under five layers of ancient wallpaper. Ipswich used to perform (very badly) as a stage clairvoyant Astrodamus. Could this be the magic at last? And how could he possibly have known?
Turns out he NEVER. He just picked up the winning lottery ticket when one Ian Amery Cooper dropped it. Shit Creek figures that the wall message was painted by Astrodamus when decorating the room, he scrawling the phone numbers of Anally-Pooper’s parents William and Winifred (WILL & WIN geddit??!) That very same call to action appeared in a phonebook Anally-Pooper saw prompting him to put those figures as his lottery numbers for 12 years running until the lovable rapey rogue Mister Corbyn wouldn’t take no for an answer and stole his ticket to freedom.
Oh and that the Sandman shit? It’s all about some dead cunt of a pet rabbit Polly’s parents fucked over when she was a kid. Seriously? You wasted our time with that mess? In other news Jonathan frees some armed robbers, Polly clears up an outbreak of Japanese Dickweed and some disgusting bearded Antipodean tub hacks baby monitors for gossip for the local parish magazine.
Don’t ever say this is the show where nothing happens.
The verdict: New Zealand clam.
Marks out of 10: 7.5