Friday Night Lights is very probably the best thing I’ve ever seen on TV. It is way up there with The West Wing, The Singing Ringing Tree and that episode of Blue Peter in which John Noakes slipped in elephant poo. Until I get to the end of my five-series boxed set, there is very little chance of me writing anything more creative than an e-mail, and even then, my head and heart will probably remain in Dillon, Texas for a long time to come. I love the series for its characters, story lines and soundtrack and for the fact that I care so much that I can almost be bothered to work out the rules of American Football. Amongst a host of other issues, it dares to explore the subject of disability in a way that is refreshingly honest and uncomfortable. When quarterback Jason Street is injured in the very first episode, he remains paralysed and with limited use of his hands. He does not become a paralympian, he is not miraculously cured by the love of a good woman or cutting edge stem-cell technology, his friends don’t all continue to rally round. He does not become some kind of a-sexual, long-suffering shadow of his former self. There are no fantasy dream sequences in which he suddenly leaps out of his wheelchair to lead the Panthers to victory. And though that is Jason’s tragedy, we are all the richer for it.