We’re All Doomed! TV and Movies’ Worst Polluters
In the early stages of the twenty-first century our fragile ecosystem hangs in the balance. Global warming is causing sea levels to rise and increasingly volatile weather patterns are wreaking havoc across the globe.
A captive world searches for answers while angry nations look for someone to take the blame.
Well, here at OTB we don’t profess to be meteorological experts – in fact we can’t even cobble a Geography GCSE between us and Sally has trouble locating Scotland on map – but we think we may have shed a little light onto the source of our present dilemma.
All it took was a little downtime and and a bit of lateral thinking. That’s right – we’re blaming telly and movieland.
It may only be on the small scale but it’s the thin end of the wedge, my friends. When it becomes acceptable to empty the half digested contents of your stomach onto the pavement, how long until you decide it’s ok to fly-tip a leaky fridge into a verdant brook or burn out a wheely bin in an owl sanctuary?
“I’m only throwing this away because I’m in a rush,” you lie to yourself. “I’ll definitely sort out the recycling at the weekend.” But as we all know the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Today you’re hiding an empty bean tin at the bottom of the bin but tomorrow you’re rolling a Vauxhall Astra into an abandoned quarry, drunk.
As this clip clearly illustrates, proper disposal of household waste is essential if you don’t want to be fooled into drinking blood from a cat’s face out of a tennis ball.
God knows what Dot Cotton’s front room must smell like. No wonder everybody leaves her, I imagine the life expectancy for any living thing in that house is measured in weeks. If it wasn’t for the fact she’s spent most of her life slowly curing her shammy leather skin no doubt her lungs would look like a pair of net curtains.
And you can’t help but wonder whether the fumes billowing out of her house into the square haven’t contributed significantly to the downtrodden grayness that permeates the waking lives of everyone on Albert Square.
It’s not just the sight of litter strewn streets and dirty broken windows that can bring an area into disrepute. Even the cleanest duck pond and tidiest village green can seem like a sink estate when the acoustics make you want to stuff your ears with wasps just to drown out the noise. And what could be more irritating than a walking, talking foghorn like Janice Litman Goralnik invading your personal space?
With a voice that could curdle milk at twenty paces, Janice’s aural devastation is equivalent to a dirty bomb going off on the underground.
We’ve all known the delights of British seaside holiday, emerging out of the sea only to find a used johnny stuck to your legs and nappy floating desperately close by. But just thank yourself lucky you don’t hail from the shores of Vietnam.
Picture the scene, you’ve just found the perfect spot on the beach to unfurl your towel and have settled down to read your holiday novel. But what’s that? It sounds like Wagner! Suddenly, before you can say factor 15 the beach is awash with gunfire. Aside from the smoke, much of which is poisonous, there’s the constant racket coming from Chinooks hovering menacingly near and the occasional rainshower of napalm.
And because you didn’t cough up an extra £35 for apocalyptic beach insurance your holiday is ruined.
My dad was partly right when he complained that leaving the lights blazing cost the earth. Not only is it wasteful but it contributes to global warming. And if you’ve ever been woken at 5.00am by the sun during a camping trip you’ll know how annoying it can be.
I understand that the universe can be a dark place and maybe that’s why alien space craft look like they’ve just ram-raided Halford’s when they arrive on earth. But guys, when you get here just turn it down a little, will you?