Mirror mirror on the wall, show me where them bombs will fall*

Last night, I barely slept. This was almost entirely the fault of Charlie Brooker's Black Mirror: The National Anthem, the first of a tripartite drama series exploring the 'dark side of our love affair with technology'. As the credits rolled, I was left reeling – I was nauseous, shaking and crying, and yet fully aware that what I'd just witnessed was nothing short of magnificent. Now, those who know me will be well aware that I have a tendency to lean towards the hyperbolic, but – for me, at least – The National Anthem was one of the most staggering, well-executed pieces of television I've had the pleasure (or, more accurately, the displeasure) of watching in a long while.

In fact, the mere watching of Black Mirror marked something of a big step for me, as someone who – I can't quite believe I'm admitting this so freely, but heigh ho, what are blogs for? – suffers with horrendous nightmares brought on by exposure to intense and/or frightening media (films, books, television, anything really). I might have previously avoided the show, based on the premise – not because I thought it sounded poor, but because it sounded like something which might trigger another spate of nightmares. It's a self-preservation thing, and something I've had to do for the majority of my life. You might think me weak for doing so, for having a fingers-in-ears, lalala I'm not listening kind of attitude to anything a little grim or unsettling. That's a fair point, but if I could save myself nights of terror and sleeplessness, save myself the from the fear of even just closing my eyes, then that's what I would do.

However, last night I chose to watch. While Hannah-at-22 copes much better with things than Hannah-at-16, and has a better tolerance for such matters, I nevertheless found myself watching at least the last half of the show with my hand clapped over my mouth, cushion clutched to my chest, stomach churning (if only the continuity announcer had said something like 'do not watch this show having just consumed a relatively hefty tuna sandwich; this means you Hannah', the nausea might not have been so intense). I could have switched over or off, but I didn't – in the most part because the show was brilliantly compelling and beautifully shot/acted, but partly because I felt it important that I watched on. I knew it would make me ill, but, somehow, that was okay.

Having just typed the above, I find myself unable to expand on that particular facet of my reaction to the show with any more coherency, aside from the admission that, coming away, I feel somehow braver, in my own silly way. It's a strange thing to try and talk about, the nightmares and the aversion to the grotesque, and for years I was completely unable to do so, thinking myself a freak of nature for being so wimpy and pathetic (fainting while being shown a video of the plague in a Year 9 history class doesn't invite the kindest of responses). Hopefully, clicking the 'publish' button for this post marks the start of me being less ashamed of what I now realise is just another 'thing' about me, alongside my predilection for dancing in public and my bizarre attraction to forearms. We'll see.

Aside from the particular, very personal effect that The National Anthem had on me (reading it back, the above seems sickeningly overdramatic and wanky, so my apologies for that), it also gave me other, more sensible feelings. Let's do those now!

Shallow, 'I like your face' thoughts
WELL, talk about a cast that is relevant to all of my interests. It's like there's a Venn Diagram of my loins, with circles that represent things like 'childhood crushes', 'gingers', 'period drama dishes' and 'beloved theatre bods', and The National Anthem occupies the intersection, giving me everything I never knew I wanted from a TV show. Rory Kinnear, everyone's favourite balding academic sexpot, managing to deliver more with just his eyes than I thought possible! Tom Goodman-Husbandry* as a Malcolm Tucker type to Lindsay Duncan's steely spin doctor! Alastair McKenzie, existing in real life on my TV screen, giving me all the flashbacks to my early teen years, watching Monarch of the Glen and having some formative feelings about Archie in cable-knit jumpers! Allen Leech and Andrew Knott, in scrubs! Every scene seemed to throw up someone else I loved, and everyone was brilliant. Not a weak link in the cast, really.

Slightly more dignified thinky-thoughts
Being a long-time fan of Brooker's journalistic writing, and his various -wipes, I knew we'd be in for a treat with the Black Mirror series. Looking back on the first episode, 'treat' is absolutely the wrong word -- The National Anthem was bleak, horrifying and nauseating to watch. But fuck me was it clever. So much reference to social media in popular culture is done by people with little or no experience of it, but Brooker knows it inside out, knows exactly how the Twittersphere would react to such an series of events. It was stunningly executed and, at times, hilarious; mentions of 'it's trending on Twitter', and 'of course the Guardian are doing a fucking liveblog' were particularly inspired, and exceptionally true-to-life.

And it was this 'true-to-life' nature of it that made it all the more difficult to watch. The premise, spoken aloud, seems to veer into the ridiculous, but it was almost sinisterly plausible, unfolding akin to the recent hacking scandal or the riots, through social media, as a public waits for a government response, speculating and slandering, mocking and mollifying as the hours tick by. It was this plausibility that made the climax of the show so gut-wrenching – at once impossible and yet so, so real. Too real. Sickeningly so.

And, to add yet another layer of metatextuality, watching the show with a buzzing Twitter feed next to you results in catching things like this:

I can't put it better than Emma - we really are a perfect parody of ourselves. Brooker's right: the screens of our televisions, computers and smartphones do act as a black mirror, while a show like The National Anthem forces us to look at ourselves in that black mirror, and – as we witness a countryful of fictional people congregating in pubs and communal areas to watch the hideous spectacle unfold – ask ourselves the most bizarre of questions: would we have watched?

*Lyrics from Arcade Fire's 'Black Mirror', a song I have been unable to get out of my head since the show aired.

**How I wish I could call Tom Goodman Husbandry by his proper name (Goodman Hill) more often. Alas, Free Agents has warped any sensible frame of reference I have for the poor guy. PUT DOWN THE BOX WINE, MALCOLM.