Kevin Myers: Memory murdered by know-nothing land of TV
I had been watching 'Downton Abbey' these recent weeks in the fond and fervent hope that the great Spanish Influenza Pandemic of 1918 would wipe out the entire household.
And then, to my disbelieving horror, I discovered that last Sunday's programme was not the last. Far from the flu making short work of the entire cast, it had done for just one of their number: a seldom-seen waif.
Let me be frank. I have followed 'Downton Abbey' with the sick, bewildered shame of a happily married man that consorts with a one-legged prostitute who is older than his mother. "Why am I doing this," I cry each Sunday, trying to repress the waves of nauseated disbelief assailing me, as I indulge in yet another episode of this sorry farrago.