Woah now. Woah, fellah. Back up a minute.
This American loathes Are You Being Served?, and would be happy to see it gone. Totally gone. As in, all recordings around the world confiscated, packed up in crates, and launched into the Sun. Purged from our civilization.
In fact I’m disappointed NASA keeps ignoring this inspiring purpose for the space program, whenever they have to coax another year’s funding out of Congress. Instead we get the clunky Space Shuttle and the half-baked International Space Station, neither of which can destroy anything beyond a few astronauts here and there. (And technically, they weren’t really designed for that.) You could at best, I’m estimating, squeeze three seasons of Are You Being Served? tapes and discs onto the Space Station — say, all the ones with Mr. Mash — and you’d still only be storing them off planet. Full destruction would have to wait until the station’s orbit decays in a few decades, and we just can’t wait that long.
No, into the Sun it must be. “Put beyond use”, I believe the term goes. And to be safe, we should also destroy all the gratis coffee mugs and tote bags that PBS keeps handing out every pledge drive. Otherwise, millennia from now, our remote descendants might dig up enough evidence in our buried cities to reconstruct Are You Being Served? from scratch. They could inadvertantly bring the show back to life, not realizing what they’ve done until it’s too late.
You’re close, but a funeral isn’t the right yardstick. For one thing the sign has to be reversed. A funeral can still contribute a positive if small amount of humor to the day. You can remember the good times you had with the deceased, and the funny things he used to say and do. You can laugh into your sleeve when there’s a mismatch between the solemnity of the occasion and some goof-up during the prayer.
But an episode of Are You Being Served? has actual negative humor. It subtracts mirth from all that follows it, numbing the humor center of the mind, depriving you of any laughter or cheer until bedtime. Not even back-to-back episodes of Fawlty Towers and Flying Circus immediately afterward will return you to normal. Like for a hangover, time is the only healer of this wound to the brain.
Yet you ran it for ten seasons, Britain. Ten seasons!