A short post on my enduring love for all things Scandinoir.
Why, why, why are you not all watching the third season of The Killing?
I excuse those of you who are.
The rest of you must buck your ideas up.
It is utterly, utterly compelling, as ever.
There are car chases through the gloaming. Tick.
There are jumpers galore. Tick.
There’s lots of use of the words Compewdah and Tak. Tick.
There is a great deal of night time. Tick.
There is a smattering of incomprehensible Danish politics. Tick.
There are red herrings by the boat load.
It’s just perfect.
I have decided that the Danes must be the most disobedient race on the planet. No sooner do you order one of them not to do something than they immediately rush off into the louring Danish night to do exactly that.
Not only that, but they are absolutely terrible at answering phones.
It is a national affliction.
I spend my entire viewing time perched with one buttock on the sofa cushions, chewing my fingers to the bone, staring into the dense night and shouting: ‘No! No! Don’t go into the forest of death and fear! PICK UP THE DAMN PHONE YOU MORON.’ Before squeaking and burying my head in Jason’s t-shirt.
I am exhausted at the end of every episode, and because BBC4 insist on showing them in two episode chunks every week, I have to go through it twice in one night.
I look like a sleep deprived raccoon, and it’s a good job I’m not precious about manicures.
Despite the fact that Denmark seems perpetually full of murderers running through abbatoirs and forensics laboratories, and someone goes up in flames about every half an hour, I am still smitten.
I intend to take a holiday to Copenhagen as soon as humanly possible.
I shall be packing some knitwear, a magnifying glass and some blood pressure meds.