The “grand final”, for want of an accurate description, of Sing If You Can ended with this announcement from Keith Lemon: “It’s been brilliant. I can’t wait for a second series.”
That’s just a threat, right? Not a promise?
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ITV1’s Daybreak launched a laudable drive called Donate A Day, urging viewers to give up some time for charity.
Fine by me. They can have June 27, 2010. Germany 4, England 1. I don’t want that one back.
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In light of recent events involving a certain Premier League footballer’s alleged libido, the makers of I’m A Celebrity will undoubtedly be getting out their chequebook to sign up Imogen Thomas, the model at the centre of the super-injunction, for series 11.
She’ll say nothing of note for three weeks, of course, like every other overly paid WAG before her in the Australian jungle.
So if the producers want some advice that’ll save them a wasted fortune and book someone who’ll bolster ratings, I refer them to Channel 4, 5pm daily this week, where a new reality show star was born.
Paula Hamilton. (No, me neither).
“I’m known as a model. I’m known as a TV presenter. I’ve done film.”
Still no.
“Some of you might remember some awful escapades in newspapers about my drinking. Some of you won’t know me from Adam.”
I don’t, and I’m Adam.
Whoever she is (a former judge on Living TV’s Britain’s Next Top Model, if you must know – and I appreciate that still rings no bells), she’s been the one compelling reason to tune into Celebrity Five Go To Cape Town.
A fantastic show starring a quintet of egos on “an adventure holiday in the sun”, which reached its desired levels of double entendre for any discerning TV critic on Tuesday when Christopher Biggins went on safari in search of dik-dik.
Hamilton stood out as the one you’d like to pummel even before making it through Heathrow’s departures lounge.
Truly one of a kind is this South African-born living nightmare. “Raised by the Zulu”, you name it, she’s got it – dyslexia, dyspraxia, autism a complete lack of self-awareness, all the qualities of an under-developed toddler, and her own daily diet of “essential fatty acids to stop me being a complete and utter loopy girl”.
My tip? Double your portions. At least.
She nearly walked at the end of day one from the stress of having to endure a free 10-day holiday in a luxury villa with stunning views of Table Mountain and the ocean, stropping: “I’m an aborigine and I feel like I have no space. This is pushing me to the limit.”
The poor lamb.
She somehow battled on, though, and even survived the first vote-off (yes, it’s that kind of programme), which would have killed the series stone dead at the halfway point and denied us another of her countless anecdotes the following day: “I was the first female in Buckinghamshire – it’s well documented – who did a male’s job in a cement factory at the age of 16.”
I think we all remember that well, what with the amount of times it’s been documented.
What is remarkable, though, is that because of Hamilton I haven’t yet mentioned one of the other celebs was Stuart Baggs “The Brand”.
Biggins, who’d never heard of last year’s star of The Apprentice, ventured: “Baggs The Brand? Is it a commercial or a situation comedy or something?”
Pretty much, actually.
Baggs’ crowning moment was a blazing row with the lead singer of the Three Degrees, Sheila Ferguson, because he hadn’t tidied his room, telling her repeatedly to eff off, which was scarcely concealed beneath the swear-bleeper for a teatime audience – one of many reasons why this show was atrociously scheduled and needed a primetime slot.
For the record, the fifth member of the group was cricketer Ed Giddins, a man so unknown that the on-screen caption writers spelled his name wrongly as Giddens.
Truth is, though, there were four stooges in this show. It belonged to Hamilton, who said at the end of day two: “I’m buying an isolation tank when I get back.”
Yes, please do. And try to get it through customs on your way to the Queensland jungle.
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TV subtitles of the week go to the BBC1 team at the Spanish F1 Grand Prix who had Martin Brundle saying this during a pit stop on lap 31:
“Fernando Alonso, Mark Webber and Jenson Button are all petting, as expected.”
Though it probably came as a surprise to their wives and girlfriends.
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Breaking news following the sacking of Cheryl Cole from the US X Factor.
Paul Gascoigne has turned up at the studio with a fishing rod, a can of lager and… well, you get the idea.
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Excuse me if you’re eating, but what would you say is the best time to discuss genital warts on television?
If “never” is your answer then you’re obviously not the Channel 4 executive who decided that it should be 8.09pm, on Wednesday.
And why not show them as well at that pre-watershed hour, in full high-definition glory on a huge screen in a TV studio, by getting a 23-year-old bloke from the West Midlands to waggle his afflicted privates in front of a webcam for the viewing nation?
Or rather, why? Why oh why?
I’ve no idea. But they did it, on Diagnosis Live From The Clinic, Embarrassing Bodies in all but name with the same doctors and the same unfortunate conditions.
People called in with scabby nipples, facial herpes and leaky lady bits for instant medical advice. I know, because I saw it. Some of whom you could actually hear above the hiss and crackle of their home computer microphones, but only some.
The programme’s purpose? Well, it had one, according to Dr Christian Jessen: “This show is paving the way for how you might access healthcare in the future.”
Revolutionary, then. No more need for those tiresome GP waiting rooms and face-to-face contact.
Just to be sure, though, let’s hear what Dr Dawn Harper advised the callers.
“If you’ve got concerns about your circulation, get it checked out with your GP.”
“If you make an appointment to see your GP, it would take them a very short amount of time to take a look and double check it.”
“I would make an appointment with your GP.”
The best, however, came from Jessen to the woman with sore nipples: “It’s quite clear that the answer to this is we’re not sure.”
It’s the future of healthcare, everyone.
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Nine whole months of gripping Premier League action came down to a dramatic final day for the clubs facing the drop.
So, over now to BBC News’ sports correspondent Sally Nugent: “If you’re avoiding the results waiting for Match of the Day which follows this news, look away now…
“Birmingham City have been relegated. They were beaten 2-1 by Spurs.”
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High drama on ITV1, last Sunday night, where a man named Jake from Truro failed to roll a steel ball along a narrow beam using just one finger before airline chef Raymond from Middlesex scooped 500 small red plastic balls from a tray within 20 seconds.
We’re in The Cube. Or, as it’s now known, the Best Entertainment Show on British television.
At least I think that’s what it was named at the Baftas that same evening.
Because even six days on it’s hard to see past the moment the country’s most esteemed TV awards became a permanent farce.
And it arrived with this grim announcement: “And the Bafta goes to The Only Way Is Essex.”
A Bafta. To The Only Way Is Essex.
Not Downton Abbey, not BBC4’s brilliant Danish crime drama The Killing, not even Big Fat Gypsy Weddings, which I wouldn’t have had an issue with.
No. The Only Way Is Essex. An ITV2 programme that’s neither soap nor drama nor reality show. It’s scarcely a television show, for pity’s sake.
We can, of course, blame the viewers who voted it for the night’s only audience award.
The fault, though, really lies with Bafta for giving the public a smeared stick with which to beat its credibility to a mushy pulp.
There were worthy winners, notably Sherlock, Steve Coogan and three nods to BBC4.
Human Planet should have picked up a gong instead of some 3D trickery, and Martin Freeman won the Martin Freeman Award for Best Martin Freeman Acting Like Martin Freeman in a Martin Freeman Role.
But the Essex vajazzlers overshadowed the lot, which leaves just one logical Bafta for next year.
So you might as well book your table now, the team at Don’t Scare The Hare.
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The most educational show around is, without doubt, the cracking pub-quiz themed Al Murray’s Compete For The Meat, on channel Dave (Thursdays, 9pm, watch it).
Among the things I never knew I never knew was this from voiceover man Jim Rosenthal: “The game of skittles dates back to the ancient Egyptians and has been a fixture in pubs for as long as men have wanted to get trolleyed and throw things.”
The answer to the question: “What country borders Thailand, China and Vietnam,” is Laos, and not “Vietnam”, as a contestant guessed.
And finally, this from the Pub Landlord himself: “Abba are the world’s third worst band, after Bon Jovi and Duran Duran. That’s a fact.”
It is a fact. So can you please tell my wife, Al?
