Jonny McCambridge: Bringing back the days when we gathered together to watch the telly

Indeed, it was an unwelcome surprise for him to discover that some programmes are interrupted by ad breaks and that he had to wait until 9pm to watch each episode.

The second reason it was unusual was because he wanted his mum and I to watch the programme with him. Of course, we like to spend as much time together as possible and love our occasional movie nights on the sofa, but for the most part our consumption of media is separate with not much overlap. It is not uncommon for me to be watching sport in one room while my wife watches drama in another and my son is playing on a games console in a third.

In the many years that I’m a Celebrity has been a feature of the TV schedule I had never previously seen it. Moreover, I have to confess that the supposed draw of watching Matt Hancock get covered in maggots or eating the intimate parts of an animal rather escaped me.

Nonetheless, I readily agreed to my son’s request to view the reality show because I was greatly attracted to the idea of the three of us sitting down to watch something together.

I think there may have been an element of nostalgia here, a yearning for the world the way I think I remember it when I was young. There were fewer distractions then, and fewer channels and what I like to refer to as event TV – programmes that could not be missed, programmes that got talked about in the school playground the next morning. The world as we knew it then seemed much smaller and we all watched the same stuff.

Dallas was event TV for grown-ups (although the kids were fairly clued in on all the twists of who shot JR). The A Team served the same purpose for children (I ain’t getting on no plane fool!) The end effect was the same, families gathered to consume telly and the content was discussed over and over afterwards.

The FA Cup final was event TV back in the 1980s when the broadcasting of live football was still rare. It was deemed so important that the whole day’s TV scheduling on BBC One and ITV was designed around it. BBC had Cup Final Grandstand while ITV had Cup Final World of Sport which often seemed to include wrestling from Blackpool Tower featuring Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks.

The sense of occasion was often more compelling than the match. My da had very little interest in football, yet because it was the cup final he would sit down with my brother and I to watch it. Granted, he had usually dozed off before half-time, but the intent was there.

However, the ultimate in event TV was the World Cup. The first World Cup I have clear memories of was Spain 1982. The first I followed obsessively was Mexico 1986. Northern Ireland qualified for both tournaments and I grew up with the expectation that this was the way it would always be. If I had been told in my pre-teenage years that I would go through the rest of my life without Northern Ireland ever qualifying for a World Cup again I would have found it difficult to accept.

In the days before Sky Sports, Amazon Prime, saturation coverage of football and players being paid half a million quid a week, the World Cup seemed to be impossibly exotic. I was greatly affected by the exploits of the brilliant Brazilian team from 1982. Part of their almost tragic appeal was that when they were knocked out, I knew I would not see Zico, Socrates, Eder and Junior play for another four years. Unlike now, there was not going to be another game on the telly in just a few weeks.

Going back to local interest, all of my family huddled around the TV when Gerry Armstrong’s goal gave Northern Ireland a famous victory over Spain. Just like we gathered when Dennis Taylor sank the final black to beat Steve Davis to become world snooker champion and when Barry McGuigan beat Eusebio Pedroza to become world boxing champion. Maybe it is that communal experience which I miss most, the sense that just about everybody I knew was doing the same thing.

So, over several nights, my son, wife and I sat together on the sofa with snacks and watched I’m A Celebrity. I was keenly aware of the passing of the generations as, on several occasions, found myself dozing off and my son excitedly prodding me awake to keep me informed of what was happening. There were several humorous moments and a general sense of contentment with my son wedged tightly beside me.

But soon the interest began to wane. I have a pretty low threshold for this type of material, and I could sense my boy getting restless too. Soon he was reaching again for his games console and my wife was shushing me as I pointed out that Dec and Ant’s whole repertoire seemed to consist of them making the same few jokes over and over again. It was not long before my son and I had abandoned the programme.

But as we retreated again to our separate rooms, I was left with a feeling of regret, a thought that a special experience had occurred but had been allowed to slip through my fingers. The problem, I decided, must be the content.

I had been aware for some time that the World Cup was coming. I had also been aware that, in the middle of winter, I had none of the excitement I would usually feel at the beginning of a tournament. I decided to attempt to rouse some enthusiasm and recapture the warm glow that came from the three of us cuddling up on the sofa.

I gathered my family.

‘Let’s watch the first match of the World Cup,’ I suggested. ‘That’s what we used to do when I was a kid.’

‘Who’s playing?’ my son asked without looking up from his iPad.

‘Uh..’ I checked my phone. ‘It’s Qatar v Ecuador.’

‘Nah, you’re alright.’