This is one of those ‘00s British murder mystery shows that is so tame and inherently beige in nature that, on the surface, it can feel like gallons of amber saccharine piss being rocketed down your throat by a fire hose. Rosemary & Thyme follows the two pluckiest little middle aged white women gardeners in England, who are seemingly so fucking dense a source of Cenobite hell energy that their very presence causes death wherever they decide to put down their metaphorical spade. By just turning up for a job, Improbably Hot Grandma & Miss Trunchbull are almost certainly going to cause their friend of the week to get murdered by the latest gated community serial killer. 22 episodes over three years and not once do they remark on the fact that they are likely possessed by Pazuzu, however simple and quaint their day to day lives outside of stumbling onto a new murder every fucking day seem to be.
There’s no escaping the blandness of the British countryside, filled with problems that often amount to little more than white parishioners and pensioners squabbling over horticultural dilemmas, with the occasional salt & pepper ‘spice’ of a little affair there and a little embezzlement here. They’d probably consider pepper a bit too much for the heart, a bit too taxing on their poor varicose fucking veins. It’s as if Brainiac had said fuck Krypton, I’m bottling up this little slice of Hartfordsexshireton and making all the poor damned souls within it act out their last moments for all eternity. Oh, sometimes they go to Spain! Sometimes they’re fucking tedious in Spain!
And you know what? I love it. I love it all so much.