No matter what home-building project is outlined in the first few minutes, I can now beat McCloud to the observation that the couple won't have enough time or money to complete their oak-and-timber homage to Viking longships on the shores of the loch, writes John Butler
I'M A NEWCOMER to Sky+, that subscription feature in your set-top box that records your favourite shows and stores them for your viewing pleasure. I know many people have been using Sky+ for years, and can no longer be buttoned about the delights of such a service. They're so jaded that they don't even sing the praises of the series link feature, but I do. In a matter of weeks, it can transform your entire personality.
At your command, series link searches for and stores every episode of your favourite series, as it appears on the schedule. Liberation from the scheduling grid is one thing, but nobody told me that with such choice comes a series of onerous tasks. Within a week of installation, my set-top box had already pulled down 15 episodes of Grand Designs from the ether, and the available memory was down to less than 20 per cent - a sorry state of affairs which threatened the boxes' ability to record films I had already seen but wanted to see again in the forthcoming weeks, as well as Dragon's Den, which I NEED to see.
What to do? I couldn't bring myself to delete some episodes of Grand Designs unviewed. It would make a mockery of my decision to series-link it in the first place, besides I do enjoy an hour of architectural porn every now and then. What if (as is always the case) the ones that I deleted happened to be the best ones ever? Would I ever get the chance to see them again? I most assuredly would not - having already viewed the weaker episodes on my Sky+ set-top box, I would run a mile from Kevin McCloud in the future, souring my appreciation of his great show.
The net result is that I am now powering my way through the backlog, watching on average three episodes a day. When you watch any show with such frequency, the manner in which they have been created becomes clear, and you start to think like the makers of the programme. My mind has become McClouded. For those who don't know, each week (or every couple of hours in my place) Grand Designs takes you through an adventurous new home building project from planning to completion. The show's presenter, Kevin McCloud, is an earnest, patrician designer/presenter who has responsibility for designs as varied as the fresh vegetable frescoes on the ceiling of the food hall in Harrods and the Tesco building in Finglas.
Grand Designs is all about homes, but not just any common-or-garden semi-d. We're talking sustainable timber-frame houses built with breathable, waterproof cladding boards, vapour barriers and internal plasterboard made from gypsum reinforced with newspaper. You heard me. And no matter what home-building project is outlined in the first few minutes, I can now beat McCloud to the observation that the couple just won't have enough time or enough money to complete their oak-and-timber homage to Viking longships on the shores of the Scottish loch.
Kevin feels it. Pieces-to-camera are delivered with heart-breaking sincerity. He has the habit of breaking eye-contact with the camera at points and staring into the night sky or an adjoining meadow, searching for the right adjective to describe the relationship between a building, the people who live in it and the land upon which it stands. He feels so much for the converted mill in Leicester, the water tower in Kent and the solarium in Bournemouth that you worry for him. When the drama unfolds, and the subjects inevitably begin bickering with their architect, forget about insulation and ordering windows, and finally run tragically over budget, you feel disappointed; for Kevin, you understand. I could care less about the finances of Theo and Elaine, I just wish they wouldn't disappoint Kevin.
So what the hell is the guy with the houseboat doing, salvaging vile, mis-shapen windows for his living room? Doesn't he know that's just not McCloudy? What on earth did the Welsh couple think was so clever about painting their walls an antiseptic white instead of a warmer magnolia, as Kevin would have done? Doesn't everyone know that Swedish window suppliers shut down every July? Lastly, why does everyone insist on getting pregnant at the very point that finances become stretched to breaking point and the threat of homelessness looms on the horizon, a very real and present danger? This is the stuff of nightmares - the very idea of not having a home being that which awakens Kevin at 4am, in a clinging sweat. It's as if they're deliberately trying to unhinge him.
At one point during a particularly frustrating build in the Campsie Fells in Stirlingshire, Kevin actually removes his hard hat (strictly verboten on site) and bangs it off plywood holders to illustrate the absence of the triple-glazed composite timber windows. "Look! That . . . (dull thud of helmet on wood) . . . that's supposed to be glass! Doing all this work in fits and starts is completely . . . arse about tit! It's no way to build a house!" With that, he storms off-camera and the picture cuts, but I find myself wondering whether in this fit of displeasure Kevin would miss the hole in the floor where the staircase would eventually be and plunge down on to the poured conrete floor, safety helmet clasped uselessly in his right hand.
But of course he loves it and we love it because this is drama, and delivered on tap, through a set-top box. Not since the VHS video recorder have I known such viewing control. In the intervening years since I last had access to a VHS player, I have lived in flats without televisions and had to share remote controls with those who didn't appreciate home-improvement shows. None of these places have been my dream home, but I have drawn the plans for it now. Brace yourself, here it comes . . . Sky+, in every room. Can you imagine?