TV
I'd been meaning to do a piece on daytime television but I just kept putting it off. The problem I had was that to write about it, I'd actually have to bite the bullet and watch it. I found it incredibly easy to keep making excuses not to. All my pencils are really sharp now, for example.
However, fates conspired against me and I found myself spending all of Tuesday in a hospital waiting room with a television switched on and with no control over which channel was showing.
I was ill prepared for quite how nightmarish this experience would prove to be.
Initially GMTV is on when I arrive, and I'm well used to the idiosyncrasies of Queen Fiona by now so that was no biggie, but LK Today followed and so banal was this show that I can only assume that it's there to soften up people's brains so they are feeling suitably moronic to sit through an hour of The Jeremy Kyle Show.
Where do they find this never-ending stream of people who are prepared to go on national television and show us what total and utter losers they are? Who in their right mind would want to be patronised, belittled and generally talked down to by “Jezza”? I wonder just how much money this bloke makes by trading off people's misery. Perhaps he genuinely cares. Hides it well though doesn't he?
Is the bloke a frustrated Jeremy Paxman wannabe or just a geezer getting his own back on the world because he was bullied at school? Anyone actually care? Well it seems some do because this pulls in shedloads of viewers every day. I notice that some of the other people sharing my waiting room are hanging on his every word and amazingly not all of them have their knuckles dragging on the floor.
Perhaps there's some kind of mass hypnosis going on. If you manage to sit through a whole hour of this you find yourself hooked, addicted even. I decide not to risk it and go in search of a cup of tea.
I could give you a review of the tea at this point but I fell into that trap a couple of years back while writing a review of Rowetta's album and it it didn't turn out well (I actually liked the album but it seemed to sink without trace). Suffice to say it comes in a cardboard cup and it is impossible to tell the difference between the taste of the cup and that of the tea. A request for toast is greeted with the sort of dismissive snort that surely can't be hygienic in a hospital. I'll move on.
On my return to the waiting room the communal telly has been switched to BBC One and surely things will be better on Auntie's flagship. Stunningly they get worse.
A property show is well underway as I return and is swiftly followed by another, Open House but so similar are they that they quickly meld into one in my mind. Now I'm not sure exactly what the demographic of the daytime audience is but I'd be highly surprised if the majority of it was in the high earners bracket. Yet the properties being pawed over here are in such high price brackets that you have to wonder what use the information being imparted can possibly be to the poor saps that sit through this pap on a daily basis.
There is a sort of game show element to add some sort of suspense and keep viewers on the edge of their seats. At least I think there is. I find that I keep dropping off. Three and a half hours watching daytime telly in a hospital and I'm already getting institutionalised. Is this what my grandmother is having to put up with every day, propped up in chair in front of a massive plasma screen?
I get a sudden urge to rescue her from her old folks' home. I need a plan. How on earth can we get her Zimmer frame over the perimeter walls? It occurs to me that I've been watching far too much Prison Break and I quickly abandon the idea. Anyway she might actually like Bargain Hunt.
They really should have put this show out to grass years ago. Even Dickinson realised he was flogging a dead horse but Tim Wonnacott is still out there dragging people round buying cheap tat at inflated prices and then watching their astonishment as they realise what a bunch of plonkers they've been.
It looks and feels like cheap filler telly and while Tim still has boundless enthusiasm, the format doesn't seem tired it seems exhausted. I find that I don't really care about the value of any of the stuff they've bought and only really get passionate about a toast rack that looks a bit like a crocodile and that's only because it 's so hideous, I'm hoping against hope that somebody breaks it.
One item is a set of Pinky and Perky puppets. I realise that I'd rather watch Pinky and Perky than this tosh. It's that bad.
They don't seem that keen on variety at the daytime scheduling department because next up is clone show Cash in the Attic. By this stage my groans have seemingly become audible because I find myself being comforted by one of my fellow waiters. “It could be worse,“ he points out helpfully, “sometimes it's hosted by Angela Rippon”.
I assume he's not a fan.
My “enjoyment” of the show is impaired somewhat by the fact that person flogging off all their nasty old junk is an American. The British by and large are rather great at looking crestfallen and disappointed, which is presumably what the audience is waiting to see. Our cousins from across the pond (sweeping generalisation alert) have a somewhat sunnier disposition and don't get nearly as grumpy.
My brain by now is in severe danger of turning to absolute mush. At least I'll get some intellectual stimulation from the news, I think, but as it begins, it appears that my loved one has woken from the anaesthetic and my presence is required bedside. By the time she decides to drop off to sleep again and I can return to the waiting room, we're back to the mind-numbing stuff.
Whatever happened to Watch with Mother? A episode of The Flumps would seem like Kafka compared to the drivel I been subjected to so far.
Doctors is next and quickly puts me in mind of Chorlton and The Wheelies because a wheelchair-bound doctor is being harangued by a wheelchair bound journalist. The other thing that reminds me of old kids' shows is the presence of Stephen Boxer who I remember from a lunchtime pre-schooler where he was accompanied by a character called Mooncat. Or perhaps I just dreamt it. I can remember being resentful of it because it had replaced the wonderful Hickory House and for some strange unaccountable reason Beryl Reid was involved and didn't seem to be all that happy about it.
I digress.
The main thrust of what's going on seems to revolve around that Irish bloke who used to be in EastEnders and his unease about the relationship between a couple of elderly lesbians. His distrust is eased when he discovers that the woman he is distrustful of is loaded. A true morality tale and no mistake.
This just has the total feel of a daytime show. There seems to be a sort of ambience in these efforts that has existed since the early days of daytime with Crown Court and persisted through the likes of Gems and Take the High Road all the way through to the present day.
What's someone as talented as Diane Keen doing stuck in this? She'd fit into Emmerdale a treat.
I check on my beloved and she's still fast asleep. I'm faced with a choice between Neighbours, where resident bad guy Paul Robinson is agonising over whether he's a bad guy or not, or going for a walk.
No brainer.
I go for a walk.
On my return, Diagnosis Murder is playing. Really? Are they still showing this nonsense. I've spent all day in a real hospital and other than receptionists and the dragon I purchased my tea from, I don't think I've seen anyone over 35 on the staff. How old is Dick Van Dyke's character supposed to be? They'd probably have to use carbon dating to find out.
The plot is as ever completely implausible, the hair styles indicate that this is a very old episode, Chachi from Happy Days is completely wooden – might explain why Charles in Charge is never repeated – while Dick Van Dyke cruises through the whole thing with an expression that says he's really happy to take money for old rope.
As least guest star Cliff Barnes out of Dallas has the good grace to look embarrassed to be there. The pay off of the episode is probably the least convincing poker sting ever committed to film.
This show is only scheduled for forty minutes but it seems to drag on for hours. I can't take much more of this. By now I'm actually looking forward to sitting in a Birmingham traffic jam on the way home. It seems like fun compared to...
Rosemary Shrager's School For Cooks, which is in full swing as the communal television switches to ITV1.
Now Rosemary is obviously a very good cook but she's hardly television-friendly. She's a formidable woman but not quite eccentric enough for us to take to our hearts. A minor argument ensues as someone in the waiting room suggests that she was one of the Two Fat Ladies. My contribution to the debate, “Which one? The dead one?” does not go down well.
When the contestants talk straight to camera, captions appear on screen describing them such as “New Mum” or “Entrepreneur”. I await a caption bearing the legend “Cack-handed incompetent” which at least would have been accurate.
Doesn't happen.
By now it's four o'clock and Midsomer Murders, but after eight hours of daytime dross, my head is barely capable of registering anything. It seriously crosses my mind that after absorbing all this garbage, I may not be fit to drive.
Thankfully a nurse tells me that my girlfriend is ready to depart and I bid farewell to the waiting room seriously regretting that the telly wasn't out of order.
Redemption song
Over the next couple of days, as my girlfriend convalesces, I get the opportunity to watch daytime with the power to change channels, but things aren't much better even then. Crusty old warhorse Countdown offers the best entertainment, partially because Jo Brand is being very funny and very unCountdownlike in dictionary corner, but mainly because of the debate we're having over whether or not Carol has had a face lift. While we can't quite agree, we do come to some consensus that something odd seems to have happened to her cheekbones.
Des is too good for this show. Give him his chat show back.
The only other daytime show to grab our interest is Food Poker because it's such a rubbish idea that we're amazed it ever got commissioned. The presence of the bloke off Rogue Traders kept making us think he was going to expose the cooks as dodgy at any moment.
My advice to anyone who is faced with spending any length of time stuck in the house during the day is to leave the telly off and get a jigsaw in.
Bits 'n' Bobs
Hope-less finally got the boot off The X Factor and even Rhydian wasn't that good this week as the show limps towards its inevitable finale. It's Same Difference that send shivers down my spine. Her eyes get scarier by the week. Indeed I think he looks terrified of her. I keep hearing them being called sweet. More saccharin than sugar going on there.
You can see why they tried to “sex up” pre-publicity for that dire documentary about the royals. It's as dull as ditchwater and Tim Piggot-Smith's droning commentary had much the same effect on me as a lullaby.
Big thanks to BBC Breakfast for spoiling the results of Dancing with the Stars before it was shown on UKTV Gold.
The good news was that the US version of our dancing competition was shown in 16:9 on the channel as was Spiceworld. More 16:9 presentations please. Less Spice Girls thanks.
Bruce Forsyth did the opening monologue on Friday Night with Jonathan Ross and it was far better as a result.
Well done Biggins. Do yourself a favour though and refuse to take part in any of those terrible Iceland ads.
However, fates conspired against me and I found myself spending all of Tuesday in a hospital waiting room with a television switched on and with no control over which channel was showing.
I was ill prepared for quite how nightmarish this experience would prove to be.
Initially GMTV is on when I arrive, and I'm well used to the idiosyncrasies of Queen Fiona by now so that was no biggie, but LK Today followed and so banal was this show that I can only assume that it's there to soften up people's brains so they are feeling suitably moronic to sit through an hour of The Jeremy Kyle Show.
Where do they find this never-ending stream of people who are prepared to go on national television and show us what total and utter losers they are? Who in their right mind would want to be patronised, belittled and generally talked down to by “Jezza”? I wonder just how much money this bloke makes by trading off people's misery. Perhaps he genuinely cares. Hides it well though doesn't he?
Is the bloke a frustrated Jeremy Paxman wannabe or just a geezer getting his own back on the world because he was bullied at school? Anyone actually care? Well it seems some do because this pulls in shedloads of viewers every day. I notice that some of the other people sharing my waiting room are hanging on his every word and amazingly not all of them have their knuckles dragging on the floor.
Perhaps there's some kind of mass hypnosis going on. If you manage to sit through a whole hour of this you find yourself hooked, addicted even. I decide not to risk it and go in search of a cup of tea.
I could give you a review of the tea at this point but I fell into that trap a couple of years back while writing a review of Rowetta's album and it it didn't turn out well (I actually liked the album but it seemed to sink without trace). Suffice to say it comes in a cardboard cup and it is impossible to tell the difference between the taste of the cup and that of the tea. A request for toast is greeted with the sort of dismissive snort that surely can't be hygienic in a hospital. I'll move on.
On my return to the waiting room the communal telly has been switched to BBC One and surely things will be better on Auntie's flagship. Stunningly they get worse.
A property show is well underway as I return and is swiftly followed by another, Open House but so similar are they that they quickly meld into one in my mind. Now I'm not sure exactly what the demographic of the daytime audience is but I'd be highly surprised if the majority of it was in the high earners bracket. Yet the properties being pawed over here are in such high price brackets that you have to wonder what use the information being imparted can possibly be to the poor saps that sit through this pap on a daily basis.
There is a sort of game show element to add some sort of suspense and keep viewers on the edge of their seats. At least I think there is. I find that I keep dropping off. Three and a half hours watching daytime telly in a hospital and I'm already getting institutionalised. Is this what my grandmother is having to put up with every day, propped up in chair in front of a massive plasma screen?
I get a sudden urge to rescue her from her old folks' home. I need a plan. How on earth can we get her Zimmer frame over the perimeter walls? It occurs to me that I've been watching far too much Prison Break and I quickly abandon the idea. Anyway she might actually like Bargain Hunt.
They really should have put this show out to grass years ago. Even Dickinson realised he was flogging a dead horse but Tim Wonnacott is still out there dragging people round buying cheap tat at inflated prices and then watching their astonishment as they realise what a bunch of plonkers they've been.
It looks and feels like cheap filler telly and while Tim still has boundless enthusiasm, the format doesn't seem tired it seems exhausted. I find that I don't really care about the value of any of the stuff they've bought and only really get passionate about a toast rack that looks a bit like a crocodile and that's only because it 's so hideous, I'm hoping against hope that somebody breaks it.
One item is a set of Pinky and Perky puppets. I realise that I'd rather watch Pinky and Perky than this tosh. It's that bad.
They don't seem that keen on variety at the daytime scheduling department because next up is clone show Cash in the Attic. By this stage my groans have seemingly become audible because I find myself being comforted by one of my fellow waiters. “It could be worse,“ he points out helpfully, “sometimes it's hosted by Angela Rippon”.
I assume he's not a fan.
My “enjoyment” of the show is impaired somewhat by the fact that person flogging off all their nasty old junk is an American. The British by and large are rather great at looking crestfallen and disappointed, which is presumably what the audience is waiting to see. Our cousins from across the pond (sweeping generalisation alert) have a somewhat sunnier disposition and don't get nearly as grumpy.
My brain by now is in severe danger of turning to absolute mush. At least I'll get some intellectual stimulation from the news, I think, but as it begins, it appears that my loved one has woken from the anaesthetic and my presence is required bedside. By the time she decides to drop off to sleep again and I can return to the waiting room, we're back to the mind-numbing stuff.
Whatever happened to Watch with Mother? A episode of The Flumps would seem like Kafka compared to the drivel I been subjected to so far.
Doctors is next and quickly puts me in mind of Chorlton and The Wheelies because a wheelchair-bound doctor is being harangued by a wheelchair bound journalist. The other thing that reminds me of old kids' shows is the presence of Stephen Boxer who I remember from a lunchtime pre-schooler where he was accompanied by a character called Mooncat. Or perhaps I just dreamt it. I can remember being resentful of it because it had replaced the wonderful Hickory House and for some strange unaccountable reason Beryl Reid was involved and didn't seem to be all that happy about it.
I digress.
The main thrust of what's going on seems to revolve around that Irish bloke who used to be in EastEnders and his unease about the relationship between a couple of elderly lesbians. His distrust is eased when he discovers that the woman he is distrustful of is loaded. A true morality tale and no mistake.
This just has the total feel of a daytime show. There seems to be a sort of ambience in these efforts that has existed since the early days of daytime with Crown Court and persisted through the likes of Gems and Take the High Road all the way through to the present day.
What's someone as talented as Diane Keen doing stuck in this? She'd fit into Emmerdale a treat.
I check on my beloved and she's still fast asleep. I'm faced with a choice between Neighbours, where resident bad guy Paul Robinson is agonising over whether he's a bad guy or not, or going for a walk.
No brainer.
I go for a walk.
On my return, Diagnosis Murder is playing. Really? Are they still showing this nonsense. I've spent all day in a real hospital and other than receptionists and the dragon I purchased my tea from, I don't think I've seen anyone over 35 on the staff. How old is Dick Van Dyke's character supposed to be? They'd probably have to use carbon dating to find out.
The plot is as ever completely implausible, the hair styles indicate that this is a very old episode, Chachi from Happy Days is completely wooden – might explain why Charles in Charge is never repeated – while Dick Van Dyke cruises through the whole thing with an expression that says he's really happy to take money for old rope.
As least guest star Cliff Barnes out of Dallas has the good grace to look embarrassed to be there. The pay off of the episode is probably the least convincing poker sting ever committed to film.
This show is only scheduled for forty minutes but it seems to drag on for hours. I can't take much more of this. By now I'm actually looking forward to sitting in a Birmingham traffic jam on the way home. It seems like fun compared to...
Rosemary Shrager's School For Cooks, which is in full swing as the communal television switches to ITV1.
Now Rosemary is obviously a very good cook but she's hardly television-friendly. She's a formidable woman but not quite eccentric enough for us to take to our hearts. A minor argument ensues as someone in the waiting room suggests that she was one of the Two Fat Ladies. My contribution to the debate, “Which one? The dead one?” does not go down well.
When the contestants talk straight to camera, captions appear on screen describing them such as “New Mum” or “Entrepreneur”. I await a caption bearing the legend “Cack-handed incompetent” which at least would have been accurate.
Doesn't happen.
By now it's four o'clock and Midsomer Murders, but after eight hours of daytime dross, my head is barely capable of registering anything. It seriously crosses my mind that after absorbing all this garbage, I may not be fit to drive.
Thankfully a nurse tells me that my girlfriend is ready to depart and I bid farewell to the waiting room seriously regretting that the telly wasn't out of order.
Redemption song
Over the next couple of days, as my girlfriend convalesces, I get the opportunity to watch daytime with the power to change channels, but things aren't much better even then. Crusty old warhorse Countdown offers the best entertainment, partially because Jo Brand is being very funny and very unCountdownlike in dictionary corner, but mainly because of the debate we're having over whether or not Carol has had a face lift. While we can't quite agree, we do come to some consensus that something odd seems to have happened to her cheekbones.
Des is too good for this show. Give him his chat show back.
The only other daytime show to grab our interest is Food Poker because it's such a rubbish idea that we're amazed it ever got commissioned. The presence of the bloke off Rogue Traders kept making us think he was going to expose the cooks as dodgy at any moment.
My advice to anyone who is faced with spending any length of time stuck in the house during the day is to leave the telly off and get a jigsaw in.
Bits 'n' Bobs
Hope-less finally got the boot off The X Factor and even Rhydian wasn't that good this week as the show limps towards its inevitable finale. It's Same Difference that send shivers down my spine. Her eyes get scarier by the week. Indeed I think he looks terrified of her. I keep hearing them being called sweet. More saccharin than sugar going on there.
You can see why they tried to “sex up” pre-publicity for that dire documentary about the royals. It's as dull as ditchwater and Tim Piggot-Smith's droning commentary had much the same effect on me as a lullaby.
Big thanks to BBC Breakfast for spoiling the results of Dancing with the Stars before it was shown on UKTV Gold.
The good news was that the US version of our dancing competition was shown in 16:9 on the channel as was Spiceworld. More 16:9 presentations please. Less Spice Girls thanks.
Bruce Forsyth did the opening monologue on Friday Night with Jonathan Ross and it was far better as a result.
Well done Biggins. Do yourself a favour though and refuse to take part in any of those terrible Iceland ads.
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