Slow Horses: How I Fell Into the Filthy Genius of British Spy TV

I started Down Cemetery Road on a quiet evening, thinking it’d be one of those plodding, rain-soaked mysteries you half-watch while doom-scrolling through your phone. You know the type; the streets are gloomy, everyone’s face looks like they’ve been surviving on instant noodles and regret, and at some point, someone whispers, “There’s been a murder,” as if that’s meant to surprise anyone.

But within one episode, I realised this wasn’t that sort of show. It had bite. It had wit. It was as if someone had sprinkled sarcasm all over Oxfordshire and then filmed the results. The writing was sharp enough to draw blood, and the characters weren’t cardboard stereotypes dragged out of the BBC’s prop cupboard. They were gloriously flawed humans, messy, snarky, and trying to stay upright in a world that keeps kicking their shins.

It had that rare, intoxicating mix of dark humour and proper storytelling, the sort that makes you mutter, “Oh, go on then, just one more episode.” And just when I was fully invested, they stopped at episode two. Two! That’s not a season; that’s a tease.

So naturally, I needed something to fill the gaping hole in my evening, and that’s when I stumbled into Slow Horses. And my God, what a discovery.

This show isn’t just good; it’s so bloody brilliant I’m genuinely considering reporting myself to MI5, just so I can get demoted and sent to Slough House too. Because that’s where the magic happens, the grimy, nicotine-stained purgatory for failed spies. It’s the kind of office where the coffee tastes like burnt tyres and the wallpaper’s seen things it can’t unsee.

And then there’s Gary Oldman as Jackson Lamb. He’s the sort of man you can smell through the screen, like he’s been marinated in cigarette smoke, curry, and contempt. His insults could strip paint, and yet beneath that crusty, lager-soaked exterior, there’s something oddly noble. He’s not just a wreck; he’s our wreck.

Slow Horses is everything Bond isn’t. No shiny cars, no tuxedos, no suave one-liners. Just paperwork, paranoia, and the lingering odour of failure. And yet, somehow, it’s the most heroic thing on TV. It’s witty, cynical, and painfully British, the kind of show where heroism looks like a hangover and smells faintly of kebab.

Every insult from Lamb is a poem. Every character is a disaster you can’t look away from. It’s a glorious mess, a masterclass in storytelling that makes you laugh, cringe, and nod along because, deep down, we’re all a bit of a slow horse.

So yes, Down Cemetery Road got me through the door. But Slow Horses locked it behind me, tossed the key in the Thames, and poured me a pint. I can’t stop watching. It’s gritty, hilarious, and depressingly relatable, like being British, but with more explosions.

If you haven’t watched it yet, do it. Clear your schedule, grab something greasy, and meet the worst spies in Britain, who somehow might just be the best thing on television.