Ian McMillan: Peeling back the Saturday Night Ritual

When I was a kid my Saturday Night Ritual began with me having my bath early and watching Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea. I’d put my blue dressing gown on and get a packet of plain crisps from the pantry and settle down on the settee. I’d sit there palpitating with anticipation as the opening music started and that voice that rang with authority and bourbon intoned “Voyage…to the boddom of the sea!” He said boddom because he was American and, as my Uncle Charlie said, he’d probably never been to Wombwell. As the show started I’d begin to eat the crisps, although I wasn’t actually eating them. The little task I set myself was to keep as many crisps in my mouth as I could until the first minor character got killed. Sometimes this happened in the first five minutes and I could swallow but sometimes it didn’t happen until right at the end and I’d be sitting there with cheeks like a rugby ball, gagging for a sip of Ribena. Still, a ritual’s a ritual.

When I was older, my Saturday Night Ritual was to have my bath early and put my blue dressing gown on and watch The Avengers. For reasons that I couldn’t fathom at the time the sight of Emma Peel in leather trousers made me feel odd. One night I said to my dad, in a voice that was cracking at the edges, “I like that lady and I’d like to protect her and buy her some shorts” and he looked aghast and sent me to the pantry for more crisps.

That was years ago, of course, and now my Saturday Night Ritual is very different. Who am I kidding? It’s hardly changed at all except that now my dressing gown, in honour of Emma Peel’s trousers, is black. I still have my bath early. I get a warm cuppa instead of a glass of Ribena. I allow myself a lovely bit of blue cheese instead of the plain crisps. What has changed is the fact that I’m now clutching a Lottery ticket in my hand, and I’m dreaming of wealth. Vast, untold, life-changing, private-helicopter, gold bath-tap wealth. Or ten quid. Or something in between.

I know the chances of winning are as remote as the fourth moon of Neptune but I still get my three Lucky Dips every Saturday, and I still have my ritual winning fantasy about the holidays I’d have, the people and causes I’d help, the Avengers DVDs I’d amass.

The ritual music begins. The ticket is clutched. The machine rolls. The first number is revealed. I turn to my wife and say “It’s not us”. The second number is revealed. It’s not us, but we might get four. The third number is revealed. It’s not us. No numbers this week, just a couple of one-offs.

Now for the last part of the ritual: the hurling of the ticket into the unforgiving fire. See you next week. I’ll be the one in the black dressing gown clutching the passport to wealth.