As the umpteenth series of the godawful fantasy franchise “Game of Thrones” is due to air on Murdoch-vision this week, those with more refined taste are bracing themselves for months of impenetrable chatter.

“What did Fightyman say to Kingthing?” “Did Bigbaps get it on with Longschlong?” “I wasn’t expecting the Pond People to invade the Desert City!”

Why, oh why, are we continually subjected to this crap? Who cares? Even if episode two hundred and ninety-three is rumoured to break the tit count record, so what?

Goodies fight baddies to rescue the princess. It’s not rocket science. It’s storyline number two in the Ladybird Book Of Storylines, after Boy Meets Girl.

CGI monsters, CGI goblins, endless fight scenes followed by softcore love scenes. Stilted dialogue about conquest, with a sentimental unrequited love story unsubtly woven into the coarse fabric, before even more fighting.

It’s fantasy adventure 101, Tolkein with tits.

People who actually pay to watch this heap of festering manure will be more insufferable than usual.  Whenever conversation flags, they will be on their smartphones downloading trailers and reading spoilers, giggling gleefully, and refusing to tell their friends what happens next even though their friends are looking at exactly the same content.

As the seemingly interminable series eventually shudders to a halt, viewers will be left on a massive cliffhanger to hook them in for the next series.  Box sets of this blatantly boring bilge will doubtless be cynically released in late November to cash in on the Christmas market. Then all the dead-eyed drones who love this cliché-ridden crapfest will be able to irritate their loved ones all over again over the turkey and Christmas pud.

Quite honestly, Star Trek is a hundred times better.

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