I have a confession to make. For years I genuinely thought I might be related to Luke Skywalker because in the 1970s we both had the same haircut. However, I also have another, perhaps less shocking confession to make – I have become addicted to a television show. Not just any old show, either, but a piece of indisputable and unspeakable trash. Alert both your eyes and your nostrils as you will surely need to look down your nose in my general direction very shortly. I, however, could not possibly care less, even if there was a prize for doing so. For you can keep your BBC period dramas, esoteric quiz shows and even your reality based programs in which people compete for some dubious title by being the least objectionable person, I have found something far, far better.
I have a confession to make. For years I genuinely thought I might be related to Luke Skywalker because in the 1970s we both had the same haircut. However, I also have another, perhaps less shocking confession to make – I have become addicted to a television show. Not just any old show, either, but a piece of indisputable and unspeakable trash. Alert both your eyes and your nostrils as you will surely need to look down your nose in my general direction very shortly. I, however, could not possibly care less, even if there was a prize for doing so. For you can keep your BBC period dramas, esoteric quiz shows and even your reality based programs in which people compete for some dubious title by being the least objectionable person, I have found something far, far better.
TV is often referred to as ‘chewing gum for the eyes’. That would not describe this particular program. No, siree. This is more a case of chewing tobacco for the eyes. The resulting spittle would then be projected from the side of the mouth both with a perfect insouciance and a deadly accuracy. Few shows can claim as much. The program in question is called ‘Swamp People’. Unlike so many of today’s television shows, it delivers exactly what it promises. I’m not sure that ‘MasterChef’ really produces a ‘master chef’ and I’m almost certain that ‘The Block’ does not result in a block. But I’m willing to bet my entire collection of overalls that when you watch ‘Swamp People’ what you get is ‘Swamp People’ and plenty of them. That between them they do not possess a full head of teeth is beside the point. In addition to its high-handed approach to dentistry, it holds a unique place in the television firmament in that it is one of the first TV shows shot in English which still requires subtitles.
The concept, such as it is, is brilliant in terms of its simplicity. Take one camera crew and have them follow someone whose wife and cousin might be the same person. Entertainment ensues. Mostly this is in the form of watching people go about their ordinary work day. Whereas for you and I, an ordinary work day may involve writing a letter or answering a phone call, for swamp people, it consists of getting into a boat that may well be constructed from recycled soft drink cans and hooning around the Louisiana swamplands looking for ‘gaturs’.
Gaturs (or, as they are known in English ‘Alligators’) dominate Swamp People. For a short period of time each year, locals are permitted to hunt gaturs. There’s a tidy profit to be made by selling them for skin and meat. These short few weeks result in an absolute hillbilly frenzy in which locals try and make as much money as possible in the short period of time available to them. To say that they do so with a blatant disregard for safety assumes that they are aware enough of safety to disregard it in the first place. This was best exemplified in one episode where a local was determined to catch a snake but was unsure whether the particular reptile in question was poisonous. Whilst this uncertainty would prove a deterrent to most people, ‘swamp people’ are made of sterner stuff and the man persisted. The snake, for its part, made its feelings known by biting the man. Having then dispatched the snake, the man then stared at the puncture marks on his arm and waited for any ill effects. This, he reasoned, would inform him as to whether or not the creature was venomous. Had his arm not been in a state of paralysis at the time, this would surely be a case of throwing caution to the wind. Short of being sent to a warzone, the Louisiana swamplands must be the most dangerous place on earth.
Huntin’ gaturs consists of putting bait on some heavy duty fishing wire and leaving it. You then return in a rickety piece of floating tin. If you find that a gatur has taken the bait (which is usually a piece of chicken, if not a chicken in its entirety), you then attempt to pull it into the boat. For its part, the gatur doesn’t like this very much and resists. As would you and I. There are some obvious risks in this. The first is that the gatur may succeed in pulling you into water, where it has a palpable advantage. The second is that you may, in fact, succeed in hauling the animal into the boat and then have to contend with the fact that you’ve now got a five hundred kilo handbag in its pre-manufactured state with a mouth full of razor sharp teeth inside your dinghy. When the creature is so close that you could brush its teeth, swamp people then produce a firearm of some description and shoot.
When a gatur is sent from this world to the next it prompts scenes of unbridled joy. The swamp people – who invariably have names like ‘Bubba’, ‘Hound-Dog’ and ‘Junior’ – express themselves, saying things such as, ‘Done got good not nuffin walla kazoo’ and the equally incomprehensible, ‘Golly gee wiz bang a fruity pie, wobble kazaam!’ It is at this point that the person responsible for producing the subtitles surrenders and quietly leaves the booth for a cup of tea. I’m not sure what it is about ‘Swamp People’ that so appeals to me. Whether it’s the danger, the flouting of dental conventions or, indeed, the promise of gaturs, I couldn’t be more hooked if I swallowed a whole chicken dangling from a fishing line in Louisiana. Such is my devotion, that immediately after viewing I start speaking like a swamp person. Whilst you may say that’s silly, allow me to respond by saying, ‘Who dadden on a whatzang chizzle wap.’