Forget the internet, this is proper TV

There, hasn't that made your day a little bit brighter?

Of course, like anything, you wait five weeks for*, the broadband hook-up has been something of an anticlimax.

While it's lovely to be connected to the virtual world again, all it's really done is remind me that a) nobody Facebooks me anymore anyway, b) eBay has everything in the world I have ever wanted or needed, but I can't afford to buy any of them, and c) my laptop trying to load up three tabs at once sounds like an 87-year-old trying to get out of an armchair.

But it hasn't all been a letdown. With our net package, we have also acquired Virgin TV. Which is awesome.

Having spent three years with only terrestrial, it feels a bit like Dorothy stepping out of the house into Oz and seeing colour for the first time.

No longer is every bit of viewing prefixed by the 10-minute Dance of the Aerial, where we take it in turns to stand with one arm out of the window while everyone shouts directions.

No more, will I be forced to invent ailments as excuses for not going out on a Saturday '“ I can have a social life, and watch Strictly on iPlayer, and still retain my reputation as a Supercool Person.

I think that's what the retro feminists really meant by "having it all".

Without our new-quality TV experience, I probably wouldn't have enjoyed Thursday's Children in Need concert as much as I did.

Which is: very, very much indeed.

This was surprising '“ firstly because the very act of watching it could be interpreted as encouraging the perpetuation of Fearne Cotton's career, and secondly because, um, I don't like Children in Need.

What?? Did Bravo just say she wants all sick and underprivileged children to die? Did she? Should we alert the Daily Express?

No. Calm down. I don't dislike children who are in need.

I definitely approve of disadvantaged kids getting treatment and houses and food and care. I'm all for it. Of course.

Charity = great. The programme, though = bad.

It is five hours of watching newsreaders pretend to know about pop culture, EastEnders stars pretend to know about comedy, and the aforementioned Cotton pretend to know about anything.

And as soon as you reach for the remote to turn over, up pops a video about a child with cystic fibrosis.

Then you can't, or you are a terrible person. Wogan is watching.

But Thursday's Albert Hall shebang was different.

It was, aside from the noble cause, just excellent, excellent television.

It had Leona Lewis being epic, in a dress I'm fairly sure was made by a year 10 DT Textiles class.

It had Cheryl Cole, Queen of the nation's hearts.

And it had Paul McCartney singing us out with Hey Jude, the obvious way to make any audience feel instantly uplifted, united, and like everything, will be ok forever.

But the top three moments were, by far, the following:

Dame Shirley Bassey and Dizzee Rascal '“ a union so blooming perfect it seems like madness that we haven't seen it before.

He's in a tux! She's doing some urban arm dancing!

Now we can all imagine them doing auntie/nephew-style bonding activities together, like shopping in John Lewis and going to pilates (until the inevitable happens, and they make it into a Vodafone ad).

Lily Allen and Take That '“ for weeks and weeks, Allen's latest single has been coming on the radio, and Hannah and I have been saying, "She's nicked that tune from Take That."

Then, in possibly the most satisfying piece of fourth-wall-removing, self-deprecating TV I've ever seen, we had her singing her song, when halfway through, Take That charged on singing theirs.

Ha! Hahahahaha! If The Chiffons had done it to George Harrison, everything probably would have been resolved.

Take That and Robbie Williams '“ not since the release of the doner kebab Pot Noodle has there been such a cultural milestone.

We've all known it was coming for ages, but that didn't make it any less moving.

As he and Gary Barlow grinned at each other like excited schoolboys during the finale, I actually cried.

I cried for friendship, for pop music, for nostalgia.

Then they ran the disadvantaged children clip and I cried for them too. Well done Beeb, you may have converted me.

* I'm sorry Starbucks red cups '“ I didn't mean you.

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