Puberty Passage, off Desecration Street.

Is nothing sacred? After another mindless day yesterday of making money to buy bread to keep me alive so that I could get up the next day to earn more money to buy bread etc I thought I would unwind with some harmless, televisual wallpaper, aka Coronation Street.
I haven't watched "The Street" for years. We fell out some years ago - I think it was when the show sold out to Cadbury's - and so I decided to stay away from the Devil's Lantern on Mondays and Wednesdays at 7.30pm thinking that my stand would shake up the Weatherfield bosses and panic them into a reversal of their advertising policy.
Last night I was sickened but not surprised to find that the Chocolate Barons are still there, plugging their teeth-rotting, corpulence-inducing, bowel-bashing chick comfort munchies but it turned out that was the only familiar thing about the whole soap.
During my absence, Coronation Street seems to have been transformed into a 50-yard-long fucking creche! It is just overflowing with bloody pre-pubescent teenagers doing what yoof of that ilk do best - falling in and out of "love" with each other, items of furniture and their pets, shagging, bitching, talking mindlessly about who's got the best spot-removal cream and getting up the duff. It used to be a gritty and yet often highly amusing snapshot of life in an industrial town, with all the ups and downs of which we all have had experience, featuring adults to whom we could relate. Not anymore! It's Neighbours By The Canal now. That, of course, is what the brain dead programme editors intended. "Cooeee! Jacasta. I say, that Neighbours show features lots of adolescents and so gets simply oodles of schoolkids watching it, pretending to be adults. Lets get simply loads of spotty types on the prog and then our ratings will be as good as their's." It's like repainting the Last Supper so that it now includes a KFC party bucket, 28 Goth kids hanging around a fountain outside, Judas with his MP3 player and Boyzone doing the fucking cabaret! These people evidently turned a deaf ear when their mothers told them "Don't fiddle with it dear, it will only get worse!" Give me a break. Another institution gone. Another rock in the sea of life worn away by the onrushing waves of obsession with youth. They had it about right in Logan's Run. A vision of the future in which everyone is topped once they have a completed thatch of pubic hair and no longer think the G Spot is a "wicked" club.
Not only is this rubbish thrown at us, they have extended it to three pigging nights a week and a bloody omnibus edition at weekends. Presumably that is the "the more shit you throw, you more some will stick" policy of programming which has engulfed us in recent years.
Coronation Street! Three times a day, every day of the week in Grantham. See how they like it.