The line is Play it once, Sam, not Play it again, and now I know why. If the iPlayer had been around in 1940s filmworld Casablanca, Rick would be watching reruns of Sam on Later with Jools in his riad whilst Ilsa shunned gin joints to binge on out-of-season Desperate Housewives.
Introducing the 'watch again' concept into the life of an anachronistic Blonde who thinks TV is the disease that killed Little Nell, and who has four channels when the weather is good, is as dangerous as dumping a shipful of sixteenth century Spaniards onto the shores of the New World with an itch in their nethers and a nasty sneeze. 4oD may be as poorly designed and under-populated as Habitat in a recession, and ITV's Catch Up proves once and for all that buffering is far less fun than it sounds, but with that televisual Tardis the iPlayer, the good old BBC have come up with something so rich, shiny and time-bendingly brilliant, it's better than David Tennant doing Hamlet in John Galliano doublet 'n hose.
Chaise lounging in my paisley peignoir, I have become the image of depravity. Reclusive, sallow and gritty-eyed, I am existing on nothing but a clutch of Medjool dates, a samovar of laudanum, and hourly doses of Mad Men. True, my general dishabille came in handy at the Experimental Cocktail Club of Paris' Toulouse-Lautrec themed ball at Bungalow 8, but now I'm back in the boudior the bed sores are beginning to burn.
It's time for Rapunzel to let down her iPlayer, shimmy down the tower, and do something wholesome. I think this is the beginning of an abusive relationship.