Gracious Sirs (and madams) of the B. B. C., my acquaintances and I dropped our monocles in horror, sirs - yes, HORROR, when we discovered the news today that your most distinguished and plaidy crime drama serial "Ripper Street" is to return no more to our screens. "What the dickens is this?" we cried, looking up blearily from a hookah pipe (and a hooker) in an opium den, as we realised the full horror of our most unfortunate predicament. No more plaid on our screens. No more unlikely Cockney accents. No more tension caused partly by the thought that Drake might burst into song at an inopportune moment. No more plaid stretched manfully over manly thigh as our merry band of crime-wranglers head off through the mist and murk of Victorian London to go toe-to-toe with a ne'er-do-well. No more figures from history pirouetting through the plot. No more leaping out of a speeding barouch to deck a baddy with a glass eye!
Alas, and alack! We wonder for what we pay our TV licence, we fans of woollen-blend fabrics and felt hats! Must the B. B. C. schedules be nothing but terrible talent shows featuring people with spray-tans? No, B. B. C. - no! WE SHALL NOT ALLOW THIS!
If the B. B. C. continue with this abject folly, we shall have no choice - no choice, d'y'hear? - but to arrive at your offices with several hundred rolls of finest Harris tweed and woollen plaids, and lay siege, thus, until we can convince you to reconsider this most disheartening decision.
PS: The boxset is on my Christmas list.