Telly Ache

When you’re unemployed, simple daily tasks take a lot longer. Breakfast lasts for three courses. A shower becomes Homer’s Odyssey. And daytime television is the procrastinator’s sworn nemesis, because the demoralising truth is nobody has ever achieved greatness by watching four back to back episodes of Come Dine with Me.

I had this epiphany during an episode of Homes Under the Hammer. It’s not even a bad show, but it has this hypnotic, repetitive, anaesthetic appeal that numbs your synapses, mushing your brain into a property pulp, washing over you like some innocuous fart. It’s the television equivalent of staring into a coal fire or a washing machine. It’s just there.

The show fits perfectly into UK TV’s daily dump of daytime discharge. The only reason you would voluntarily sit and watch Homes Under the Hammer is if you were infirmed, being kidnapped, trapped under a coffee table or hopelessly unemployed. There are currently 2.51 million people unemployed in Britain. The ratings must be huge.

I wouldn’t have thought the TV map could change so much in my two and a half year absence from these British Isles, but who could have guessed the current godlike deity status of Gary Barlow – an ex-Take That singer - or the fact a comedian like John Bishop could sell out the O2 Arena. To my ears, he still sounds like a darts player.

Speaking of The X Factor, there now seems to be an Essex version of Cheryl Cole sitting in Cheryl Cole’s seat. I actually thought it was Cheryl Cole for a minute, probably miming. Not that she would do that, of course.

Sardonic Apprentice underling Nick Hewer was an inspired choice for Countdown. He gives the droll impression that the show is constantly distracting him from a horse race at Cheltenham. I like it when he has to interview his guests and forgets to stop talking after he’s asked a question. Out of all the pseudo-celebrities enjoying partial acclaim when I left the country, Nick Hewer’s ascendance to daytime stardom is particularly puzzling. What’s next? Bargain Hunt with Duncan Bannatyne? Loose Women with Ann Widdecombe? Daybreak with Aled Jones? Hold on, that last one appears to have actually happened.

When I left the country condescending bear-baiter Jeremy Kyle was being hauled over the coals for exploiting the vulnerability of his guests. His reward: an American version of his TV show and seemingly 24 hour rotation on ITV2 (now to renamed Irritating TwatVision 2, or something). He has probably been given a pay rise and made Head of Pernicious Programming. Give it a year and he’ll be running for London Mayor.

I always wonder whether anything good comes from these programmes. Do you think the guests leave saying, “Thank you Jeremy for that insightful and at times physical debate. Following the lessons we have learnt today and under your insightful guidance we hope to go on with our lives in a more positive and compassionate manner. Particularly now the DNA test proves the baby is Darren’s. Thanks.”

Noel Edmonds’ new fuller beard is fascinating. With his floral shirts and tumbling locks he looks like a seventies version of Aslan. Deal or No Deal still deserves some credit for making the opening of a box look like a courtroom drama. It has been on nearly every day for seven years now. Seven years, for Christ’s sake. Richard Osman, of Pointless fame (more on that in a minute), said in this article that Deal Or No Deal is not about luck, but rather knowing when to quit. “It is essentially ‘stick or twist’ in the same way as any job or relationship you’ve ever had is,” he writes. “What man, when his mind turns to marriage, hasn't thought: ‘It's a lovely offer, but perhaps I should just open three more boxes?’”

Breakaway is a particularly lumbering, drawn-out quiz show where conceited one-upmanship is rewarded over coalition. Individual contestants can ‘breakaway’ from their team to answer questions on their own and therefore gobble up all the prize money themselves. There is a political and social metaphor in this. Host Nick Hancock is tolerable but a little patronising. “Now are you sure you want to do that?... They were really tough questions weren’t they?”

My favourite daytime quiz show is now BBC1’s Pointless, hosted by the always-affable Alexander Armstrong and the aforementioned Osman. The format is a loose appropriation of Family Fortunes, where contestants find the least likely answers based on the most common responses to audience surveys. So, for example, you probably know that Australia is a country beginning with A, but then a country like Antigua and Barbuda, which also begins with the letter A, may have slipped your mind. Pointless answers are ones that are both correct and so obscure that nobody in the survey thought to mention them.

It’s a quite cynical concept, really, having to second guest the ignorance of the general public. I always wonder where they find the time and the people to question for these surveys. But with so many out of work it’s obvious. You can probably do it by pressing The Red Button. During Homes Under the Hammer, no doubt.

We saw Singin’ in the Rain at the Palace Theatre in London's West End last week and what a jolly thing it was, heightened somewhat by exceptional seats within splashing distance of the stage. The gags are 60 years old but still great, and actress Katherine Kingsley has a ball playing verbally-challenged silent screen diva Lina Lamont, elaborating on Jean Hagen’s screechy drawl with ear-splitting aplomb. Director Jonathan Church gives both Lina and Kathy more stage time than Gene Kelly ever did in the movie. Here they even get their own songs. I never quite bought Kathy’s sudden infatuation with the enigmatic yet egomaniac Don Lockwood. Here she is given pivotal breathing space to assess the merits of dating a megastar with a licentious reputation.

Singin’ in the Rain works because of its celebration of movement (a universal language) and the basic premise celebrating the magic of cinema, something everyone can share. It may be the most damn near perfect film about films ever made, but it was conceived as a comedic throwaway to string together the hits of MGM songwriters Nacio Herb Brown and Arthur Freed. Gene Kelly considered his greatest work to be An American in Paris, filmed the year before. The extended all-dancing Broadway finale which concludes SITR was a formula copied from Kelly’s mammoth ballet sequence at the end of An American in Paris. The film also just about killed the musical as a viable money-spinner in mainstream cinemas, as rock and roll rebels and the rise of independent film all but killed off the studio system and the big budget musicals they championed.

But watch the show, it’s a triumph. However, a word of caution; expect to get a bit wet in the first five rows. The cast use the final 10 minutes for a vengeful, stomping splash-around as the stage is flooded and the audience duck for cover. Some people actually brought umbrellas, which was a nice touch.