I wanted to watch Wild Bill because I chanced across a promo and it seemed funny. Ron Lowe seemed smug, and local British people seemed over it. British people slapping down smug Americans. Amusing. (She said, smugly.)
I liked the first episode, though there wasn’t quite as much smug-slapping as promised, and I persuaded Gary to watch it too. Gary more than liked it, he loved it.
Mid-binge, I went to IMDb to find out how many episodes there were, and I read this:
“On Wednesday, 13th November 2019, ITV announced that the police drama would not be returning for a second series. Viewing figures dropped from 5.7 million for episode 1 to 3.2 million by episode 6 and the series received mixed reviews from critics and viewers. In addition, the series struggled to find a U.S. broadcaster.”
“Well, shit,” I thought, “I can’t tell Gary this.”
Gary asked, “How many episodes does it say there are?”
“Ummm … six.”
“Only six? I hate how they only put a few episodes in each season now.” (This is true, children, back in my day 22 episodes equaled a season.) “How many seasons are there?”
“Ummm… shush. You’re missing stuff on the screen.”
It was like lying to a child about Santa. For the next three hours he would randomly gush about how well-written and delightful it was, and how he loved it, and I had to hold my tongue until we were done and he demanded more. Then I had to confess that it was over, that’s all they wrote.
He was mad and bereft all at once, plus betrayed, oh my God, betrayed. Not betrayed by me, but by the viewing public for not embracing his favorite show.