KEY POINTS:
If there's a lesson to be sucked from the bitter tears of the Star Wars prequels, it's this: try to go back, and suck you will. George Lucas couldn't see the lilies for the gild. The moment he sketched his first cuddly Ewok, someone should've given him a clip round the ears and said: "Look mate, just walk away. No good will come of this ... let's go play with your slave Leia dolls instead."
But no, someone blew in his ear and sweet nothinged that it'd be even cooler if Ewoks played the bongoes. And we know how that turned out. Darth as a whiney brat and Jar-Jar Binks. Rubbish, and everyone knew it.
So, can someone explain what the hell is going on? If it's not telethons, it's Top Town, vintage ringtones and Snifters. Like the undead, indulgent retreads are rising again to eat the brains of every rose-tinted memory you've ever bored your kids with. If we're not careful, chicken in a basket and the Hair Bear Bunch will be next. Then we'll be lobbing water-filled Coke bottles onto our lawns for old time's sake.
If it sounds like harmless fun, be warned, our national dignity is already crying into a blankey while hindsight licks its chops in anticipation. Because this is what's really happening: you've just finished a fine curry, the best, the hottest and the curriest curry you've ever had, along with several lagers. You're as full as the family po, but why not have seconds? A few mouthfuls and slurps later and your stomach goes all Rotorua and before you know it ... well, you've got exactly what these bogus attempts at recapturing old glories are: nostalgic flatulence, vaguely reminiscent of the original, but nothing you should be sharing with others.
What makes things worse is that this revisionist nonsense is being conducted by people who should know better, my people; the 40-odds, the first Gen Xers, people who sat real exams.
So, on their behalf, I apologise. We're sorry, but we have the power now. You may not have noticed but we've already shunted the golden years from the 50s to the 70s - the days when OSH meant looking out for prickles and some old lady got herself on Opportunity Knocks by whistling and humming at the same time.
I blame irony. All manner of tedious crap has resurfaced of late: lawn bowls, inflation, moustaches and moaning about the kids. Sure, they sounded funny after one too many jug-skulls, but trust me, we're going to stuff things up royally.
Hand on heart, do you seriously believe a recycled Top Town will be anything other than complete tosh? Look at the raw material. The provinces ain't what they were, they're empty. Well, empty except for weekend hobby farmers, old folks' homes and gangs. Everyone else is on P, pregnant, or both, and I can't see them charging out in stubbies, matching tees and bare feet to biff sponges at each other from a plank straddling an inflatable pool. And don't get me started on Telethon. Erik Estrada's man breasts are well past dropping to give us 20 so that Chantelle from Pakuranga will cough up a fiver and then challenge every kid named after an alcoholic beverage to do the same. And what kid is going to beg Mum to take them into the studio so they can get on the telly? They're all too busy putting saucy pics of themselves on their Bebo sites.
The world has moved on, but never mind, I don't expect anyone to listen, so go ahead, have your fun.
I just ask one thing. How about bringing back hot fresh bread in the paper bag of a Sunday for a wee while? While you're defiling my childhood, I may as well be tucking into a doorstop sugar sandwich with half a cow's worth of butter.
