“Gordon Behind Bars”: Has Ramsay Lost His Bite?

Odd things, fads. A few months ago I became beset with a desire to master French. It was only after I’d frittered away £50 on audio CDs, manically scoured bookshop shelves for beginners guides and altered my laptop settings from English that I had my arriere-pensee. Me? French? I don’t even like cheese. Another time, I made eBay my monthly hang up. My wardrobe space surged as I mercilessly flogged anything greater than six months old, leaving me with precious little but a select array of summer clothes....at the close of August. And I can’t begin to list the passing fancies of my younger years. When I was 13 I came to the realization that I was depressingly middle class, and that to stand any chance of survival in school I had to rapidly reinvent myself. I started chewing gum theatrically, invested in R&B music that I neither understood nor much liked the sound of and, to crown my new mirage, tried to give myself those two little eyebrow tram lines that footballers of the time had made swish. But I don’t blame myself for this whim-tendency; we’re a nation that thrives on short-lived manias. Call to mind those few months a couple of years back that were engulfed by the bird-flu furore (about the same time, as it happens, that I was embroiled in my 1.5-eyebrow phase- try coming across effortlessly streetwise whilst you’re hysterically disturbed by the sight of a low-flying pigeon, let me tell you). One need only flick through today’s papers to be struck by the spout of intense royalism we’re in the thick of right now. And I trust I needn’t remind anyone about our insatiability for a good ol’ (whisper it) petrol strike. 

Apparently, telly producers, and more specifically the folks over on Channel 4, are no different to the rest of us when it comes to being fad-fans. On Tuesday evening they were  in the violent throes of a whim I’m hopefully unlikely to adopt as one of my own short-lived fancies anytime soon: incarceration. The second the watershed struck, C4 bigwigs wheeled out not one, but two hours of behind bars entertainment. The latter, “Lifers”, was a documentary rerun exploring the psyches of men serving lifetime imprisonment, but it was the former, “Gordon Behind Bars”, that I called to the dock; it’s had more advert-break coverage than Go Compare over recent days, so I anticipated a corker. The 4-episode series trails Gordon Ramsay as he attempts to establish a lucrative food-production business, manned by the inmates of HMP Brixton and flogging produce to the public. The show promised to brew up mounting exasperation at our judiciary system with the trusted “turnaround” signature of Ramsay’s “Kitchen Nightmares”, seasoned, naturally, with Gordon’s stinging openness.

Why so shy? Ramsay is distinctly less vocal in this series

What was patently unaccounted for at the drawing-board stage, though, was the discrepancy between prisoners and Ramsay’s usual hapless and malleable restauranteurs. Typically, Ramsay’s vehement cursing and bullish indifference to causing offense is what makes him palatable; it may be a coarse and overblown persona, but it makes for guilty T.V. heaven. It’s this formidable and frank-talking side, however, that Gordon seemed to have deposited at security along with his valuables as the episode opened. Indeed, as it wore on Ramsay became overshadowed and cringe-worthily, pitifully, uncharacteristically timid. In part one, audiences saw him being briefed on the routines of the inmates and urged not to rise to their inevitable taunts, before he narrated of a blurred and restrained figure in the background, “an inmate is kicking off. All I can hear is my name.” The Ramsay audiences fell for, the arrogant and brazen sewer-mouth with a penchant for candidness, had reverted to a reserved and apprehensive schoolboy keen to keep his head down. 

After the break, this Ramsay-as-we’ve-never-wanted-to-see-him-before split his core of 12 inmates into bakers and salesman. With the first group, Gordon heaped shameless and depraved congratulations on the craftsman of a rather woeful fairy-cake; it could have been the pride of any artless and disinterested four year old, but perhaps its menacing convict creator curtailed Gordon’s famously cutting judgement. The second group was taxed with thinking up a punchy brand for the business and they settled eventually for this gem: “Convict Cupcakes: The Real Taste of Prison”. On any former Ramsay-fronted show such a harebrained proposal would have provoked priceless and side-splitting scorn. With 6 proud and brawny inmates, though, Ramsay kept tightlipped and I stifled a yawn. In part three, Ramsay roused the boys for an early-morning briefing in their prison yard, and I was buoyantly braced for a fully-fledged, foulmouthed return to Ramsay-best. Then, the guys ribbed Gordon for donning a jacket in the nippy morning air; he whipped it off, smiled fawningly at his taunters, and lobbed it in the corner with any lingering morsels of authority. With its star displaying all the command of a fatigued nursery nurse, the show’s producers obviously felt compelled to feature their crowd-pulling celeb chef using a different tack. To compensate for Ramsay’s lack of hallmark unsavoriness, audiences were deluged with reminisces from his younger years. “I come from a rough background, and I saw a lot of sh*t growing up,” espoused a hard-done-by Gordon as he attempted to blend in with his new inmate gang. “I know the cost of prison,” he then feebly protested before retreating to his plush manor-house kitchen to reflect on the project ahead of him. The producers’ barefaced resolve to get some winning telly-time from their big-budget headliner was forgivable in the wake of his depressing taming, but one couldn't help but think they would have been better cutting their losses.

The show’s jailed tutees, queerly, became its redeeming features, and invigorated the episode with that bit of reprehensible humor that Ramsay stringently withheld. Anthony Kelly (a self-proclaimed “ducker and diver” of prison life), Lawrence Gibbins (halfway through his 76th sentence, this time for assault) and Tespa Jones (who cited a cell as the predominant backdrop to his teenage years) hogged most of the camera’s gaze and, in so doing, made their checkered pasts seem totally irrelevant. When Kelly was confronted with the challenge of scrambling eggs, he made a spectacular botch up and addressed Ramsay as “Gord”, but his cheeky-chappy attitude and unfazed gobbiness came off as more winning that criminal. Jones joshed his appointment as head veg-prepaper when the inmates attempted to cater for 800 at the shows climax and readily ridiculed his easy life on the inside (“Everyone on the outside can see we’re not living the luxury,” he muttered sardonically as he held up shoddily peeled spuds). These guys, in spite of their misdeeds, gave the episode a glimmer of fun. 

Who's the star here? Ramsay was in the shadow of the dramatic inmates

Any half-decent Ramsay “turnaround” show includes a locking of horns; a touch of dramatic disaccord before the transformation is wound up. In the main, its that pig-headed chef with an unbending faith in his mother’s menu, or the hardheaded restauranteur turning a deaf ear to Ramsay’s condemnation of the decor. In “Gordon Behind Bars”, with Ramsay lamentably but unequivocally out of action as a potential horn-locker, the onus fell to the captives, and they rose to it with aplomb. When it was put to the prisoners to dine together and not in their respective cells, Gibbins stormed about it meddling with his condiment choices and ignited a raucous row amongst the group. When, having successfully catered for Brixton’s entire haul of inhabitants, the prisoners were told someone had cozened supplies, they once more started squabbling (Tespa was the culprit, but his perplexity at having caused such a flap by bagging a few shoots of broccoli means I’m overlooking the slight). Though they could be crudely convivial, then, the show’s convicts could also be startlingly over-emotional and breath-batingly volatile, and they gave the show its juiciest points.

Judging by my lauding of the jailbirds for the last two paragraphs, one would be forgiven for thinking that I’m content to condone our much-slated judicial system- either that or I’ve adopted anarchism as my next fleeting fetish. It’s worth ramming home the point that despite its Ramsay-shaped errors, this show didn’t pooh-pooh the concerns the bulk of its audience would have of the inmates; that they’re totally unperturbed by life inside and, set alongside overtaxed law-abiders, have a rather easy time of it. Instead, they tackled the potential sticking point head on; Jones admitted “It becomes a holiday camp,” a busybody prison cook referred to the inmates as “customers” he seemed fearful to provoke and, in his intro voiceover, Ramsay commented on the financial drain of keeping prisons at their capacities. It would have been useless to scoff cynically at the apparent comfort of the inmates and cite it as a reason to tune in elsewhere; the guys themselves acknowledged it, with their tongues firmly in their cheeks, and made it even harder not to be on their side. Coupled with their penchant for banter, their making cooking chili con carne a tumultuous event and their relentless lambasting by any prison guard the producers happened to bump into (“They will lie to him, they will try to manipulate him, ‘cos thats what they do”), the inmates’ straightforwardness outweighed any doubts about their moralities.

In all, and no thanks to Ramsay, the show turned out to be salvageable; if focus shifts away from its namesake and lingers more persistently on the inmates, it could quite feasibly become my new Monday night craze...for a few weeks.

“The Exclusives”: Reality Telly with Brains?!

Cruddy eyesight is a unifying trait for my family; I struggle to picture any post-middle age Cooney that doesn’t come with a pair of specs perched atop their greying head, and even the fledglings of the clan scarcely stay un-bespectacled for long. The Kardashian brood get impossible polish; the Jackson brothers get uncommon virtuosity; we get optical prescriptions. Sidestepping life as a four-eyes far longer than either of my siblings, then, and having henceforth not needed to invest in a pair of my own rims, was something I had always seen as a mark of triumphant self-government. Take that minor genetic defect, I’m my own man. When I swung by my appointment with the family optician this week, though, something odd happened. The waiting room was no longer a place to be shunned, no longer a cell that I was annually hauled to dread the impending knell of hereditariness. It was without trepidation that I glanced at the frames stacked dozens to a shelf along the walls, and I had no longer a thirst to deride the contact-lens line as denial driven wannabes. This peculiarity, I hasten to insist, had not one eye-ota to do with Dr Gary’s plush new refurb (funded entirely, I would imagine, by my close relatives...). Scandalous as it would sound to my former independent self, I longed for that feeble acuity I had shunned so defiantly all my teenage years. Why? I’ll be honest: pure and despicable vanity. In the past few years, bookishness and geeky ambition have become the in-things, and no self-respecting, anxious-to-advance professional would be seen dead without his trusted goggles. The glasses-phenomenon is part of a mammoth shift in what qualifies as “cool” nowadays; Mark Zuckerberg is in, Eminem at least 8 miles back down the road. It’s okay, nay, its trendy to do well rather than flunk out, and a hankering for professional accomplishments is no longer at loggerheads with having a damn good time.

Television, granted, has lightly grappled with this idea for some time; each season on “The Apprentice” there’s that one candidate who surpasses all others in the cool-stakes, who banters with potential clients and remains unruffled in the boardroom. But on the Beeb’s show, despite it coming within nanometers of dealing with the geek chic craze, the enviable sophisticate and his in-season glasses crash out before the final. He may be fly, but the message is of a fundamentally dry and disciplined corporate world where he just doesn’t fit. This is the first definite point to make about ITV2’s “The Exclusives”, which I leapt onto the bandwagon of last Thursday evening. It’s upbeat, entertaining and energized to its core, and absolutely embraces the idea that aiming high is all the rage. The reality series kicked off with six stylish, bright young “rookie” journalists competing for a year-long job with Bauer Media, the sprawling media company that houses dozens of successful glossies. Across the shows, the candidates have thus far been hauled into help with massive titles like FHM and Closer as they simultaneously hone their own skills and ruthlessly try to outdo one another. It’s “The Apprentice” meets “Big Brother” meets “News at Ten”, and my biggest bugbear is that I didn’t get in on it sooner; this week was the semis, and two hopefuls had already been scribbled off the shortlist for the coveted contract.

Aspirational: The series' full lineup

Aside from being a pioneer for acknowledging the clever/cool reconciliation, Thursday’s show kept me hooked with its Bolt-pace and its BGT-insistence on variety. Unlike the comparatively stuffy Apprentice, “The Exclusives” saw the final four face several demanding, telly-gold tasks, from vying to get the scoop at a red carpet event to attempting to wheedle out publishable responses from an especially boisterous Keith Lemon. At one stage, the candidates met with the photographic director of Empire magazine and were told to recreate scenes from the primitive 2012 blockbuster “The Hunger Games” by smearing themselves in dirt and clambering up trees. This was every inch as watchable as it sounds, and there was no guilt about it being off-topic drool, either; Empire indeed runs alongside its film features some snaps of journalists immersing themselves in the world of the flick. The choppy, riveting style, then, didn’t come at the cost of focus; there was diversity in the tasks but relevance to entertainment magazines persisted throughout. 

Indeed, this journalistic focus didn’t even falter in the surgically tautened and weightily made-up face of celebrity. At the aforementioned red carpet event, competitor Felix asked of a justly bemused Mel B, “Are you into bows and arrows and swords?” Rather than dwelling on Scary’s response (or, thank goodness, her outfit), the camera cut speedily to Empire-honcho Chris Hewitt and his expert opinion on how Felix had handled himself. Throughout the Lemon segment, the spotlight obediently snapped back to the aspirants rather than hovering around a more dependably-entertaining Keith; he gave his own feedback on the candidates that, gladly, was shrewd and concise (“He came across as a TV presenter.” “He was the most like journalists that I would normally meet.”) The same was true with inter-group tensions. Instead of attempting to obliterate this inevitable aspect of reality-telly, the show used it without getting hung up on it. The eventual alienation of Felix from fellow hopefuls Stewart, Ellie and Hayley was palpable, but producers documented it only when it had a direct bearing on the productivity of the team and then only briefly; at a zombie-inspired shoot Stewart was miffed about Felix’s snatching of ideas but the onus was on doing a good job regardless. The omnipresence of the group’s mentors, including FHM’s deputy director Dan Jude, ensured a constant eye on the rookies’ progress and a voice of expertise for viewer-benefit was always on hand. Entertainment journalism, Jude mused during one lone moment with the camera, is “about seeing something that others don’t.” I may be biased, but having such insider-advice as a prevalent feature of the episode was a nifty way to keep it fresh, interesting and firmly on-track. 

At the top: Judge Julian Linley prioritised detailed feedback

The show’s eagle-eyed judges, who this episode were Bauer creative director Julian Linley  and more! editor Channy Horton, received feedback from the candidates’ onsite mentors before doing the firing. This part, though brutal enough to be wickedly entertaining, was done without marring the credibility Thursday’s episode banked over its hour stint; each rookie was spoken to directly about their slights and successes without being victimized or mocked for the camera’s benefit. The hopefuls were not, as in the bulk of reality-show T.V., distanced from the professionals. Lobbing them in at the deep end would have been contrary to the show’s aim of nurturing journalistic flair. Each of the wannabe contractees had a one-on-one with Jude in which they were urged to reflect on their efforts so far and probed on the depth of their drive. It might sound pathetically tame, but was in substance far from being buddy-buddy drivel. The stress was on creating a realistic professional environment that the applicants could thrive in, and it wound up emphasizing the fact that this would be the exact sort of environment the series’ victor could look forward to working in.

A write off: Hayley's time on the show came to an end

The contestants themselves all embodied the in-vogue studiousness that can be such a rare find in Sugar’s boardroom. There was no glaring moron there solely to be jeered and each had their slip-ups and strengths. Thursday’s casualty was former glamour model Hayley, whose less than top-notch writing style was a sticking point for the judges. Hayley had been at ease in the competitive, star-filled world of entertainment journalism, and fellow candidate Ellie tipped her shortly before the cull as one to watch; a flashback to last week’s episode recalled her bagging an Amy Childs “scoop” (perhaps taking a blanky to bed is more controversial in Essex...). The judges praised her drive and commitment to the field but her unpredictability and easy likening to “a massive blender” warranted her omission from the final. Stewart, though sickeningly smarmy and ever-poised to praise his superiority in the tasks, came across as the most committed. His resolve to carry on in journalism even if he failed to secure a place in the final was far more commendable than the responses of his competitors; Felix said he could “do some cycling at the gym”, Hayley wept and Ellie protested inarticulacy (a fabulous trait for a journalist, that), and then followed Hayles’ lead. Felix was the episode’s most-featured applicant, but his screen time failed to show him as much above adequate; Keith Lemon ran rings around him, he lacked originality and misnamed a film when writing a lengthy review on it. Still, his place in the final wasn’t too absurd. The mentors and judges remembered his previous stellar record and he oozed a stylish ease that promised an unforced writing style and professional flexibility. Still, Ellie was Thursday’s winner for me. She probed Lemon without quashing his gaiety, her “second to none” writing style was praised (though admittedly picked apart for being a jot too waffly) and producers seemed eager to incorporate her fretting that she was being outshone. Can you say “underdog”?

I’ll be tuning into next week’s final because of Thursday’s lucid focus and big-league experts, its up-to-date, career-inclusive definition of “cool” and, admittedly, because entertainment writing is something I think is pretty groovy. When I probed the show’s site (about 30 seconds after the credits), I found links to professional advice on how to crack the world of media, and the most well-trodden routes to the top. This is entertainment telly with its head, and geeky glasses, firmly in place.

What’s Bleak, Brutal & Brimming with Unbearable Nakedness (hint: it's NOT a UK Summer)? BBC’s “True Love”

I’m an ardent believer that we all have our assets; Obama lucked out on public speaking, Gates was blessed with a bit of an edge for technology and Jay-Z hit it big with his lyricism, wife, ability to wear a flat cap without looking like Old McDonald, oh for crying out loud the guy has everything, but you get the gist. I have no scruples in identifying my own biggest boon: selective memory. To hell with modesty for a second, this gift is prodigious. “I really said I’d call you for a catch-up, former awkward school friend? My head’s like a sieve sometimes!” “Me be designated driver tonight? What a scatterbrain- this is my third!” My knack for being choosy where conjuring up the past is concerned can be invaluable in gleaning the best from situations. “Card rejected, you say?! Bizarre. At least I have a bang-on trend wallet to keep it in.” Thus, as I resolved to make blog material of the second offering from the Beeb’s five-part drama series “True Love”, I wasn’t an inch perturbed by having missed Sunday’s episode one; even if it had been deserving of the sub-rave reviews it received, as long Monday’s episode was up to scratch I’d have quite contentedly glossed over it anyway. Jesting aside, its crucial with any line-up to judge each constituent on its own merit. Imagine scorning the entire Potter cast just because of Bonnie Wright’s ineptitude, or passing by the whole Celebrations tin only because of the Bounties (where do they go every Christmas?!). Monday’s “True Love”, then, had a blank canvas, and I took it unbiasedly as self-contained drama.

Love's young nightmare: Michelle and Paul struggled with parenthood

The series trails a quintet of Margate love lives, with each night’s characters being loosely but artfully intertwined as they go about their amorous business in the quaint seaside town. Stifle that yawning judgement for a minute, though; the sequence prides itself on being totally improvised drama, and this gives it some real clout. Episode two’s spotlight shone on twenty-something Paul and his apathy towards his doldrum lifestyle as a newly married father. Paul’s character, at the outset, was nigh on impossible to sympathize with; the opening scene underlined his toddler-like moodiness as wife Michelle tended adoringly to their child, and his skulking out of their seafront flat smacked of juvenility. Paul’s early case wasn’t aided by the longing and lingering glance he bestowed on a bit-of-rough blonde as he cruised past her bus stop. For a central character, it was a risky strategy to hand Paul’s wandering eye and lack of domestic contentment priority in the storyline’s progression, and one that looked astronomically unlikely to pay off. Indeed, the hostility viewers couldn't help but harbor towards him even marred the improvisational USP of the series; every time he stammered I found myself lambasting his inarticulacy rather than praising the authenticity of director Savage’s style. During his first showdown with Michelle, Paul hurled cliched digs and jibes (“Is this, like, a joke to you?” “What’s wrong with you”) that could (should?) have prompted recognition for their naturalness, but instead hardened aversion to their utterer. 

A man of two halves: Paul proved to be stunningly complex

At the midway point of the show, though, Paul proved himself quite the Jekyll/Hyde. I’m talking about a transformation that would stun the PR team responsible for Cheryl’s move from nightclub-attendant puncher to blushing belle. After a spot of typically crude flirting and a stolen moment of passion, Paul’s more sensitive side got a thoroughly good airing when he found himself in love with aforementioned bus-passenger Stella. One scene witnessed the pair strolling along a windswept Margate seafront, another featured them dancing amorously in a dimmed beachside bar (who needs Danny and Sandy’s with this pair?). Here, it was less bothersome to understand and appreciate Paul’s discontentment at home; he was not, evidently, recklessly and restlessly craving physical intimacy, but instead desperate for someone to be receptive to his romantic soft side. In fact, for the episode’s climax story-liners went one further and made Paul pitifully vulnerable; he readily loaned Stella his savings when she told him her mum was in over her head financially and subsequently had his heart and bank balance bled dry. Any producer/actor duo that can cultivate a character this deep and this able to stun audiences deserves credit, but to do so with a character who initially evokes such viewer-enmity is doubly difficult: kudos.

Michelle’s bit as the downtrodden and selfless young wife was, naturally, more apt at winning viewer support, but Lacey Turner still had her work cut out. This being Paul’s episode it was all too feasible that Michelle would occupy the half hour’s “plant pot” role-unoffensive but in an irritatingly muted, prop-ish sort of sense. Especially in those thorny premature minutes when Paul was riling up viewers, however, Lacey did a stellar job of underscoring that all-important improvisational element. When Paul bullishly confronted her about her coldness, Michelle jabbered “um lamb, I’ve got lamb, some chicken breast,” and when he crawled into their marital bed post-his first steamy rendezvous with Stella, her “is everything alright?” came off as believable, endearing and unforced. As the episode drew to an end, Michelle’s inclusion stood as testament to the subtlety and multiplicity of the series’ construction. When she begged a bag-packing Paul, “please don’t go”, it hit hard that, even as one supporting, this was a character with the potential to be every inch as intricate and insecure as her spotlight-hogging husband. Indeed, this was the time that the improv factor aided character development, rather than solid acting making the unscripted-ness a possibility; Michelle’s despair and dependence were made manifest by her lack of dramatic and cliched expressiveness. The couple's played-down staying together, too, rammed home the message that drama needn't be ostentatious or aggressive in its communication; the subtlety achieved a poignancy that escapes the overwhelming bulk of love-driven series upon series.

Everybody hurts...all the time? Michelle took a non-stop bashing

Glaringly, this episode’s pitfall was its uninterrupted bleakness. By focusing so intently on achieving nakedness and credibility producers seemed to marginally overlook any hint of light heartedness. Even Paul’s comparably frivolous time with Stella was undercut by shots of him guiltily lying to his wife or beginning another day as a run-down carpet salesman. A happily ever after, granted, might have contradicted the series’ emphasis on the ironic misery that love goes hand in hand with, but would a seldom joke be too much to ask? A few scattered giggles? True, woe does crop up in life, but so too does pleasure; to scale even higher peaks of verisimilitude one might have hoped Savage would chuck in the odd gag here and there.

At the crux of it, “True Love”, from what I saw Monday, deserves a place amongst the creme-de-la-creme of telly drama for its being a series that consistently, even excruciatingly, mirrors the hardships of the average-Joe’s love life. The series’ accomplishments are made even more commendable by the baring in mind the discrete but labyrinthine connections between each nights’ characters (Michelle’s sister, in a spectacular strike of forethought, donned the other-woman mask on Tuesday evening). And if the other handful of episodes are as bungled and dry as Sunday’s was being so heavily blasted for being? Just work on that selective memory.

“Mark Wright’s Hollywood Nights”? I’d Sooner Have an Early One

I can vividly recall my family’s first trip to the Big Apple and, grievously enough, remember equally clearly its less than first-rate start. Ours was a morning flight out of Heathrow and we had cleared customs with hours to kill. 6AM it may have been, but I waddled into the terminal with an insurmountable yearning to go chow down with Ronald McDonald. The McChicken Sandwich: three inches of stodgy bun, soggy-crumb coated breast (or leg, or face, or whatever McDonalds was being bashed for dishing up at the time), gunky mayo and withered lettuce leaves, all washed down with slurps of lumpy vanilla shake. My 11 year old self’s plait du jour, Monday-Sunday. Ba da da da da da, I loved it. We’d been air bound for no more than 30 minutes when the churning kicked in; my stomach’s din drowned out the captain’s turbulence announcements hands down. What I learnt that day, whilst slumped by the cabin’s toilet door for a solid seven hours, is that myself and the golden arches’ McChicken didn’t travel well together. Indeed, we travelled together exceedingly badly when you think about it relatively; some people manage to flit across the pond with grace and decorum, touching down with amplified eminence and without vomit having marred their travel wear. Look at Kate and Wills, SuBo, heck even Cameron adopted some inexplicable stateside glow when he visited that White House pal of his a few weeks back. It’s hazardous, this business of transatlantic translation, but one that Mark Wright, of “The Only Way is Essex” and “I’m a Celebrity...” fame, has had a crack at with his new LA-based show “Mark Wright’s Hollywood Nights”. It’s first screening this week could have been either McChicken Sandwich awful or ministerially entertaining. So which do you think it wound up as? Oh, Mark...

Branching out: Mark tried to take Essex stateside

The most glaring error in the new show’s format was its nigh-on exclusively male core cast. To get things going, Wright lit up the screen (maybe that was just that incandescent hue of his...) and gave a run-down of the pals he’d be taking on his U.S. jaunt: Neil, Georgie, Tommy and Nick. As if to ram home the point that this was a vajazzle-less lineup, Wright shared the nicknames the gang bestowed on one another: Mr 80s, Mr Wheels, Mr Expert and Mr Mummy’s Boy. The blokey focus didn’t relent for even a moment as Mark and his cronies lounged in a sauna, nor did it subside at either the pre- or post-flight airport lounges. The fivesome sat feeblemindedly talking about their seating on the plane, chucking patently weak banter at one another and trying hard to ignore the painful moments of silence. This was their first five minutes in Los Angeles?

When Mark deemed it time to give the group some focus (“Boys?” “Boys!” “Boooooys!” We get it Mark: not a vagina in sight), things only deteriorated. For the lads’ first outrageous, side-splitting and “it could only happen to an Essex boy” mishap, they discovered they’d been furnished with a clapped out Ford to swan around in. Wild...What ground my gears is that one makes allowances for these quasi-reality shows’ being transparently staged in the hope of getting some top-notch comedy (Mark himself conceded during his intro, “some of the situations have been set up by me, purely for your entertainment”) and this was the best they could summon up. It was as if producers blanked the wealth of fun and frivolity the West Coast had to offer because they were clinging to some imagined macho tone. “It’s all gone t*ts up”, proclaimed one of the guys, in one of the few times the show got it spot-on. 

Oh, just shove him in a cell...: The boys encountered the long arm of the law

Mark himself adopted the toe-curlingly cringeworthy role of father figure to his cronies before the midway point of the episode. When they eventually rocked up at their shoddy hotel for the night, Mark and Tommy found themselves face to face with a riled up cop who suspected they had been drinking (they hadn’t, though the Smirnoff in my own lounge was looking increasingly enticing by this stage). To boost morale Mark suggested the lads have a cuddle and a slumber party, before trotting out “Best mates forever yeah? Let’s just get through it.” I’m past the sick-bucket stage, just chuck me the mop. The group was depleted of their bungling ringleader for a bit during the show (more on this coming up), but upon being reunited Mark ramped up the paternal claptrap; when he heard that his comrades had chatted up some “talent” in his absence he beamed with pride like some seedy dad longing to live vicariously. “If you need to talk to me at any point, come straight to me and we’ll sort it out together” he then told a homesick, and justifiably embarrassed Tommy. Bromance is in vogue, yes, but this show swung violently between “bros” who didn’t know each other from Adam competitively vying for macho-points and “bros” who needed mollycoddling by their head honcho. 

Shows like TOWIE have recruited devotees, have they not, because audiences can’t get enough of their preposterous and over-the-top characters? The same commonplace situations acted out by humdrum people wouldn’t pack half the punch. What was amiss in the bulk of “Hollywood Nights”, then, was that Mark’s disciples couldn’t earn a place in an audience's hearts even if they’d had the gumption to do so. They bumbled around in his shadow for the first two parts and when they awoke on their first morning to find his bed empty they were horrorstruck. The third stretch, though, shaped up to be the episode’s high point (don’t get any hopes up; it was still dismally spiritless in places), because the guys were momentarily free of Mark’s governance. There were glimmers of playboy personality from Nick and Tommy acted like the reckless child finally free from a stifling and domineering mother hen. The separation worked wonders for Mark, too; he hooked up with LA contact Hayley and her air-headed accomplice Lauren and clawed back a smidgen of his TOWIE cheeky-chappy attitude. In a segment that saw the show finally resign itself to the inescapable glitz and glam of the Hollywood Hills, Mark was ferried around whilst he sniffed out a suitably swanky residence for himself and his pals. “Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes live just right up the street.” “This is Robert DeNiro’s house.” It was a marked and welcome break from the car journey of the previous evening, during which the disjointed brotherhood picked forced banter over California razzle dazzle, “there’s a topless bird! Give her a toot!” Shameful.

Embracing at last: The gang got acquainted with LA life

The episode drew to a close with the gang regrettably reunited and hosting a bash in their new pad. When I say “bash” I mean they seemed to have petitioned several mute and malnourished-looking ladies to recline around the pool while they, the guys, engaged in another retch-inducing huddle. It was an annoyance to have the show back to subterraneous depths after it had heaved itself back to rock bottom for a stint, but, on the bright side, the credits rolled pretty quickly. In a sneak peak of what was to come next Friday, we saw Mark’s hangers-on getting waxed in tricky places whilst he watched in stitches. At least producers have one satisfied viewer in the bag...

“Twilight of the Porn Stars”: The Forgotten Victims of Adult Entertainment?

At five years old I was invited to my friend James’ birthday party at the local community centre. Comrades though we may have been in the playground (he would let me trade conquers with him at absolute steal prices), poor James wasn’t one to push boundaries and his shindig was distinctly vanilla. He’d opted to hire the in-vogue children’s clown, Mr Biscuit, who seemed to crop up at the lower school’s bashes just as frequently as cocktail sausages and Ribena. Don’t get me wrong; he was a natural. Holding a gaggle of 30 sugared up and boisterous rugrats riveted was no sweat, and juggling the party hats he’d just swiped off the front row a complete doddle. Sagaciously sensing that James’ get together had peaked with Biscuit’s signature miming bit, when he sloped off out of the centre at the close of his set I thought I’d tail him. I’m no psychologist, but I’m unshakable in that what I saw in the car park outside put a pronounced and caustic stopper in my childhood: Mr Biscuit, as it turned out, drove a Volvo; Mr Biscuit owned a mobile, talked with a Brummie accent and had a wife whom he called “pet”. And worst of all, Mr Biscuit’s gigantic smile and Simpson-hue came off with a face wipe.

Since that earth-shattering day fifteen years ago I guess I’ve always staunchly believed that some performers, primarily those whose charm lies in being outlandishly irrealizable, should keep their masks on in public spheres. Is the rapport between enigmatic performer and audience not desecrated if five minutes after the curtain call the former is plonked on Daybreak’s sofa declaring the tricks of their trade? On these grounds I was initially reluctant to tune into Monday’s BBC2 documentary “Louis Theroux: Twilight of the Porn Stars”; its premise of tailing the pornographic industry’s stars (who are often, ahem, larger than life on screen) ran contrary to my Mr Biscuit-inspired convictions. That said, this week’s headlines featuring the Deputy Children’s Commissioner’s chastisement of the porn industry, for the way it has desensitized aggressive sexual content amongst children, made me reconsider. I’m one for the feeblest of underdogs (fingers crossed for England tonight), and imagined Theroux’s show as one giving the sympathetic, insightful side of the porn biz. What the Beeb in fact offered was a distinctly less binary, decidedly humanistic take on the bursting of the porn bubble industry and, critically, what it means for those who work and live inside of it.

Adult admin: Fran shared her views on the industry

From square one the doc stressed the demise of the porn industry in recent times thanks to the advent of triple-X loaded internet content. Surprisingly, Theroux’s team pinpointed the spiritless, weary team behind the lens prior to picking apart the stars themselves- a bold move, and one that signaled this documentary’s unwillingness to merely make spectacles of adult performers. At the headquarters of a leading talent agency for aspiring pornographic models, Theroux grilled the CEO’s secretary, Fran, about why she never filled in hopeful talent about what a life as a porn star would mean: “I would take three-quarters of the girls out of the business.” Fran perched at her desk like any condescending pen-pusher, asserting that porn “f**ks with the heads” of girls before greeting an amateur model with a toothy grin and a hefty pay packet. At a shoot in San Fernando Valley, the “capital of porn”, crew members were shot with smartphones in hands, supposedly more interested in checking their home screens than the grunts and moans of their subjects (I know Google Maps is a jaw-dropper, boys, but really?). It was in these segments that Theroux’s uncommon talent as an objective documenter came to the fore; his presence provoked no pretense of professionalism or spotlight-vying, but instead his softly-softness and apparent reticence helped him blend seamlessly into the background. That said, at a later and “lower-end” shoot Theroux shifted momentarily out of his studied fly on the wall persona. When the male lead, Tony, became “spooked” by the thought of what he was caught up in and was handed viagra nonchalantly by a set-worker, Theroux’s astonishment was palpable. Probing the drug-baring employee just enough, he was sagely told “the penis is a very tricky animal” and handed the inside-scoop on the hostility towards the internet held by the industry’s workers. Theroux showcased his natural intuition and flexibility as a reporter: quite content to let the material speak for itself but ready to prod it into dialogue if called to. The show shined most fixedly on those behind the camera when it dropped in on producer Rob Black, an industry insider previously famed for his unorthodoxly violent subject matter. Theroux had first encountered Black when filming his first foray into porn-documentaries in ’97, and since that time Black had been convicted of obscenity and toned down his output. “It’s acceptable to watch pornography” he affirmed stubbornly, before giving Theroux a run-down of his latest, parody-based adult flick “IRON MAN” (which, he assured a comically bemused Theroux, is “f**king fabulous). Despite Black’s gargantuan personality and steadfast pride in his work, Theroux was careful to be the voice of piercing reason: “they’ve tamed you, haven’t they?” Black could have screamed himself hoarse about his recent films being “evolved” and less “silly” than older work; Theroux was dogged with the idea that Black had fallen victim to the burnout of the industry and made it non-negotiable that his viewers think the same.

“Twilight of the Porn Stars”, as I’ve said, refused to deride the adult models it followed. Rather, Monday’s show presented them as curiously complex, slippery characters. During another revisit Theroux was reunited with J.J. Michaels, a newcomer to the scene in 1997 who had born a blasé attitude to the dangers of working in the business. 15 years on, Michaels was found a married I.T. worker who prophesied the total ruin of professional pornography before 2020. Nicole Richie’s post-baby taming is nothing compared to J.J.’s turnaround. Michaels pondered that he had only become invested in making adult films due the death of his son and a consequent reckless attitude to life, and Theroux’s dismay at not having unearthed such a nugget during his ’97 research was tangible. The message was glaring; working in porn is a path taken by the mentally unstable, those who have been battered by life in some sense, and not just a means of making a quick buck for the well-endowed. Theroux’s time at the home of “industry veteran” Tommy Gunn cemented the idea. Gunn contended that being a pornographic model can wreak peculiar emotional havoc when performers come to crave longer-lasting affection with their costars: “you do have a heart and it does show its face.” Shrewdly sensing he was on to something, Theroux followed up with an on-set visit. Whilst his bubbly blonde counterpart, Tash, bumbled around and giggled with the crew, Gunn intimated that the filming wasn’t such a casual matter for him: “would these girls be f**king me if they weren’t being paid to do it?” As Gunn admitted he fell “in love” with Tasha momentarily mid-set Theroux once more flaunted his readiness to delve into thornily awkward subject matter: “she doesn’t seem that interested in you.” The comment was bang-on with what we were all thinking at home, put candidly and without a whiff of bungling reserve. During the house call footage of Michaels and Gunn producers deemed it worthwhile to include scenes which saw the former boast of his “progressive power-thrash metal” music and the latter’s ambitions to direct a zombie film. For me, these smacked of conceited editing. Were we to decide unshakably that the pair were that shade more screwed up for having oddball hobbies? Given the comparative subtlety and skill of Theroux’s conversations thus far it was a smidge shameful to throw in content so lucidly guiding.

Another day at the office: Stefania and Tony denied any off-screen attraction

The doc achieved cohesion when Theroux, seemingly inspired by Gunn’s thoughts about intimacy between pornography costars, made on-screen and off-screen relationships a particular focal point. When the aforementioned “spooked” Tony had gotten his act together and done the deed(s, presumably), he and fellow star Stefania faced probing on their chemistry following Theroux’s observation that they just “clicked”: “You’re so funny!” Stefania insisted, right before hopping in the shower with a distinctly more relaxed Tony. Theroux’s befuddlement was priceless; it was conceivably at this stage that the gulf between documenter and documented was at its most marked, and this contrast alone made for enthralling telly. Theroux’s two visits to couple Cagney and Monty provided an additional spin on the biz’s relationship impacts. Monty explained his role as full-time assistant and beau to model girlfriend Cagney, as he nonchalantly wiped down the kitchen sides whilst she staged a “live-show” in the next room. Theroux became involved more assuredly than at any other time with this pair, sensing Monty’s misgivings about his other half partaking in a “five-man shoot” and stoking the flames. “Monty has a really good life,” Cagney attested, “that I provide for.”

Honest: the widow of a late porn star broke down to Theroux

Across his meetings Theroux was plagued by the memory of a one John Dowe: a performer he had met in 1997 who had since committed suicide. For the documentary’s culmination, Theroux tracked down Dowe’s widow, Monique, and their child. Gladly, “Twilight of the Porn Stars” here atoned for its questionable Michaels and Gunn editing; Monique’s conviction that her husband’s death was down to drug-taking and being “broken” and not directly to working in pornography may not have accorded with the earlier drive that porn is mentally destructive, but its inclusion nonetheless gave the entire documentary previously compromised objectivity and authenticity. Indeed, Theroux’s closing insistence that the industry “is more demoralized [than in ’97] and still taking the privacy of its cohorts” was pacified with his opinion that “porn is also a refuge” that “could also occasionally surprise with its tenderness”; ultimately, he gave viewers the option to forge their own assumptions.

At the end of it all, Theroux swerved of the issue of whether pornography should be so readily available on the net, as well as that of its morality. Instead, Theroux extended and complicated the debate; might the overlooked stars and producers of pornography not need every inch as much help as their viewers? My bet is that next week some lengthily titled minister will submit their report deploring the industry’s effect on its visionaries, and calling for porn stars worldwide to be taken into people’s hearts. Maybe.

Dear Ted

Dear Ted,

I’ll start as plainly as I mean to go on. I’ve always had a sort of curious respect for you, Ted. In everyday life, it seems that “the survival of the fittest” is the most unimpeachable of modern maxims. In school classrooms kids learn about “the preservation of favored races”, as Darwin put it, before they’re released into the playground to see it for themselves; the athletic cool kids swaggering to the top of the tree whilst the chubby loners dwindle wistfully far below. At work, the highfliers form their couth cliques and sneer with derision at the office’s pen pushers, whilst in romance the head-turners seek each other out with finesse and leave the rest to squabble over the scraps. But then there’s you, Mr Mosby. Since I tuned into “How I Met Your Mother’s” pilot just a few months ago, it’s become pronounced that you buck the trend, somewhat, as far as this tried and tested “survival” axiom is concerned.

Let me clarify (again, in decidedly frank terms- sorry): you’ve never exactly fitted in with the premium company you keep, but for seven years you’ve continued to subvert life’s hierarchy and share their booth at McLarens. Now, for six years this formula more or less worked handsomely; the series is, purportedly, your story, and it was excusable to see you fluster around as an involved narrator whilst Lily, Marshall, Robin and Barney forged their own stories in the Big Apple. But in this seventh season, something’s changed. With some perverse stroke of chance, some warped version of evolution, that gut-busting clique of yours has abruptly and inexplicably started to come apart at the seams: the cool kids have tumbled from atop their tree. Of course, I’m not putting it all on you finally putting the dampener on your friends’ fires: their lives and the situations they get themselves into just aren’t fun anymore, either. It’s like milk taking seven years to go bad. Think back five years to “Slap Bet” of Season Two. Whilst Lily, Marshall and Barney invented a laugh-a-minute slapping vow that would go on to span five seasons, Robin’s past as an ailing pop star surfaced: it was telly gold, “Friends” couldn’t have done it better. You were extraneous, true, but audiences could get over it. Now? The days of “Slap Bet” are dead and buried, and episode upon episode the five of you flounder about aimlessly and colorlessly before saying your goodbyes. Take this week’s episode: “The Drunk Train”.

Seven-year itch: A different show to 2005's

I guess it’s prudent, given what I’ve said about HIMYM’s demise being principally down to its character failings, to take the gang member by member. I’ll start with Marshall and Lily. Note the wishful use of “and”. Lamentably, these two have steadily become “this one”; I forget the last time either of them had a laugh out loud moment without the other’s involvement. Granted, they’ve always been a natural pairing (having been involved for 16 years), but up until this ill-fated season they could readily hold their own as individual characters, too; think “Little Minnesota” of Season Four, where Marshall and Robin spent some gut-bustingly droll QT together, or even Lily’s constant but tickling meddling in your love life. Nowadays they’re less Beyonce and Jay and more Jedward; they just don’t come separately anymore. “The Drunk Train” opened with Lily and Marshall encouraging yourself, Robin and that apish, therapist boyfriend she’d picked up to feel for the kick of their unborn baby. This is the same footloose, Loch Ness-believing, hysterical Lily and Marshall that romped on your kitchen floor in episode one (apologies if that’s the first you knew of it). Change happens in seven years, true, but does it have to be life-sucking, mind-numbing change a la the Eriksens? After their torturously humdrum first scene, Marshallandlily wiled away the next twenty minutes at a Vermont retreat with Robin and the aforementioned Kevin (whose very name, even, seems to call for the deepest of slumbers), mulling over their petty point scoring marriage. The twosome acquiesced, achingly slowly, that they would no longer live perpetually indebted to one another for trivial domestic favours. Well Marshallandlily, I’m much less ready to bury the hatchet, and following those disastrous twenty minutes you owe me big.

Brave Man: Kevin looked set to spend a tedious life with Robin

As drab as it has become, the Marshallandllily unit has suffered the “Ted effect” pretty lightly when one remembers Robin. The first season kicked off with Ms Scherbatsky bursting into your lives: the driven but dorkish golden girl of the whole operation. Season Four’s “Wooooo!” saw her return to her freewheeling best after a far too lengthy stint as your much better half (the most mighty mismatching since Megan Fox and Brian Austin Green, whilst we’re on the subject). She “wooo!”d with her fellow singletons, she charmed and she showed that, four years in, she was still HIMYM’s undisputed princess. In “Drunk Train”, though, her recent knack for being an irksome yawn reached a crescendo. She spent the majority of it toying with Kevin’s proposal of marriage, despite having been intent on ditching him for Barney a couple of weeks back, and then sniveled when he scarpered. Time not spent furrowed-brow and pondering life as a wife was spent bemoaning her recently discovered infertility, before asserting her wish to remain childless. Baffling. And this is one of America’s former best-loved comedies? Robin’s character has lost the self-assuredness, consistency and zealousness of seasons past, and acquired senseless inconsistencies, alienating contradictions and an uncanny ability to imitate Moaning Myrtle.

Genius: Is this how you get people to find you remotely interesting, Ted?

Barney remains the series’ sole sliver of credibility. With him, it’s evident that consistency and cheer doesn’t need to come a cropper to weighty storylines and added character complexity (listen up, Robin). Barney’s taken his fair share of battering lately; paternal question marks, unrequited love and uncharacteristically adult relationships have all been chucked at the perpetual playboy. Even the season’s debut episode, which revealed Barney is soon to walk down the aisle, failed to dent Mr Stinson’s hilarity, viability and conformity to viewer expectation. “Drunk Train” was another showcasing of timeless Stinson antics, with his alarm at not scoring a bed buddy on the notoriously racy last train to Manhattan of the evening reminiscent of pre-woe Barney. It didn’t especially matter that he had become enamored with a mystery girl and was cavorting with other women merely to take his mind off her; it was merry regardless of the deeper stuff. That said, Ted, I urge you not to cling to Barney anymore. This desperate trying to emulate his potent, viewer-friendly charisma is coming off more than a tad sad (playfully asking him to be your “wingman” and screeching “screw ‘the one’!” were memorable lows). The chance to wile the audience died about six years ago, so do us all a favour and go out gracefully as your dependable, wet-weekend self.

I take pride in my stamina, and told myself about five minutes into “The Drunk Train” I’d make it to the end, by hook or by crook. Thus, I was privy to your slapdash declaration of love to Robin in the episode’s final couple of scenes. I’ve no doubt, Ted, that a few seasons ago this would have served as a hum-dinger of a cliffhanger (indeed, I’m pretty sure it has done on several occasions already…), but I found it hard to muster up even a morsel of interest this time around. Love Robin. Love Lily. Love Marshall, if you fancy it. I’m through with giving a damn.

Yours sincerely,

One thoroughly exasperated former fan

One Line Wonder

Future Ted (perhaps remembering CBS’ 2013 list of returning shows): Kids, sometimes you realise the journey you’ve been taking has reached its final stop.

The Fortune Telly-er

If coming shows don’t involve a hefty amount of Barney-time they might as well not air. Having said that, I’ve got a pesky vision of Quinn (the stripper introduced only this episode as his potential love interest) turning out to be the much-hyped future Mrs Stinson…

Division & Conquer: My (First) Three Dates with “Nikita”

Smack dab in the middle of “Buffy and the Vampire Slayer’s” sophomore run, our heroine found herself pitted against a brute known as The Judge. Pausing for breath between one grisly butchering and the next, The Judge assuredly expounded his inviolability to “weapons forged”; he had been around since the Middle Ages when bows and arrows were the pinnacle of modern warfare and was impervious to such 14^th Century efforts to do him in. Buff-stuff’s penchant for a challenge afforded her the upper hand, though, and one slick trip to the local Department of Defense’s arsenal later she gave The Judge what-for, rocket-launcher style. What did Ms Summers make of that pesky old “no weapon forged spiel? “That was then. This is now.”

I guess this showdown packed a particular punch because it was so gaudily contemporary; not only was the dinky blonde chick whooping another frightful bad guy, but she was doing it by niftily capitalizing on the most newfangled of weapons. Out with the old, in with the new. Miserably, though, the scene lacks a hefty chunk of its ‘97 force when watched today; gadgetry’ has moved on, nemeses have moved on, and feisty females onscreen have moved on, remarried and spawned generation on generation of Buffy-ettes. Things have changed since the 90s (see also Pokémon and The Spice Girls), and to stay abreast of those shifts action-based telly shows have got to be cutting-edge. Despite being well aware of this, I’ve made it quite plain in the majority of cases that hopeful replacements for Buffy need not apply. I’ll opt to wallow in nostalgia, thank you very much. Thus, it was only after days of pestering that a friend coaxed me into applying my tried and tested “three-date rule” to her latest small screen darling: “Nikita”.

Even with my crazed clinging to telly days of yore, the premise of “Nikita” became too alluring to turn down: one woman’s relentless pains to sabotage the espionage government agency she used to be a part of, Division. After handpicking its recruits, Division obliterates his or her past record in society and churns out formidable agents. So what’s with Nikita’s gritty and rampant resolve to take the team down? Turns out Division is corrupt, and the crooks heading the operation made the faux pas of taking out Nikita’s civilian fiancé because the relationship contradicted protocol.

Beauty and brawn: Maggie Q stars as Nikita

Critically, the pilot managed to convey its assured and complicated premise without skimping on an engaging, high-octane first-ep plot. Nikita started the day by dropping in on her former foster father, snapping his wrist and filling him in on her entanglement with Division. Having the prescience to know her operative pals would thus be sticking to her like glue, she then staged a visit to her dead lover’s grave and used Division’s attempts to annihilate her to kidnap its head technician. Not content with humiliating the organization just the once before midday, Nikita incomprehensibly got wind of its latest operational plan to assassinate an African politician and royally scuppered the attempt, all the while relying on only the most unfathomable action-stunts and (note the stress on being up to date) sharpened ammunition. For her final trick, Nikita stormed (or, rather, strutted) the government gathering attended by Division-head Percy and her former mentor Michael, coolly divulging her wish to see them suffer and then rustling up a shoot-out deserving of a spot in any Bond flick. From the off, it was apparent that Nikita was not another roguish brat, bothersome but easy enough to do away with when she had the front to show herself; no, Nikita was shown as a weighty and competent threat with more foresight, resourcefulness and (to keep us on her side) compassion than a hundred government officials combined.

Not just the new kid: Alex had an agenda

Parallel to Nikita’s pilot comings and goings, the show followed Division’s latest recruit into the fold. After showing her being ditched at a crime scene by a masked accomplice, Alex was spared prison by Michael and began her operative grooming. It was intriguing enough, though this dimension of the hour slot struck as a tad forced; were we to be lumbered with this angst-ridden, comparably incapable future agent just to be allowed a glimpse into the inner workings of Division? I’d have happily forgone it. Alex’s early lunchtime dispute with fellow recruit Jaden and her first session with on-site psychologist Amanda were both more “Mean Girls” than “Mission: Impossible”. In retrospect, my immediate disregard for the Alex thread is testament to the show’s nimble construction; at the close it was revealed that Alex had been planted in Division by Nikita herself to act as mole, and was much less the inept and innocent newbie than she made out. And that masked accomplice of hers? Nikita struck again. Just in case the primary half of the episode hadn’t seen her come off as astute and impossibly intelligent enough on its own, the revelation that Nikita was also the orchestrator of Alex’s scenes saw the heroine reach even Buffy-dizzying heights.

The following two episodes, “2.0” and “Kill Jill” respectively, kept momentum going in the character department and wowed with their plot premises. In “2.0” Division made the protection of wealthy Serbian war criminal its priority on the promise of a hefty pay out, and Nikita naturally made it her day’s work to finish him off. To muddy the water, both were foiled when Dadich, Division’s said golden ticket, was taken hostage by a group of mercenaries following a hotel showdown with Alex at its helm (that first mission as an active agent for a covert and debauched governmental organization can be pesky, can’t it?). Division’s sights soon became set on a tracking device that would have led them to Dadich’s valuable uranium, so Nikita adapted her schedule accordingly and lobbed it in front of an underground train. Special mention in “2.0” has to go to its breathtaking pace, both in terms of the storyline lurches and the literal speed and visual dexterity of Nikita (Maggie Q, who plays her, insisted back in 2010 that she did all of her own stunts in the series: now that’s an actress worthy of her no doubt sickeningly mammoth paycheque).

Espionage thriller meets beauty pageant: journalist beauty Jill Morelli was taken under Nikita's wing

“Kill Jill” centred on Division’s determination to conceal a commercial short haul plane crash, due to its cargo being made up of stacks of lucrative cocaine rather than the customary pasty and excitable tourists. Nikita concerned herself with protecting Jill Morelli, a journalist who had been contacted with footage of Division’s agents doing their dirty work following the crash and who Division was therefore keen to interrogate and discredit. After another signature shootout scene and several ill-fated kidnap plots, episode three culminated in Nikita outdoing Michael and his Division cronies to clear Jill’s name. For the first time, though, what was going on in the bowels of Division’s headquarters became more engaging than Nikita’s trigger-pulling antics in the outside world. Suspecting a mole planted by Nikita working within their walls, Percy and Michael demanded the evaluation of their technician, Birkhoff, by the aforementioned psychologist Amanda. By having Division pit ignorant worker against ignorant worker, the show’s writers bolstered the unit’s presentation as an inhumane and ruthless foe. The situation simultaneously allowed “Nikita” to showcase its attention to detail; even the lesser characters like Birkhoff and Amanda were written as having their own insecurities, potent personalities and dynamics. Alex, meanwhile, was duped into legitimately assisting Division sniff out Nikita when she solved what was ostensibly a training exercise, and this whipped up dormant conflict for her character: the woman that saved her life or the secure government agency that gives her and potential love-interest fellow recruit Thom a home? Dispelling my initial fears that she would serve as the series’ bumbling wannabe living in Nikita’s fierce shadow, Alex’s organizing her own battering just to get closer to Division’s hub evidenced the writers’ refusal to let only their protagonist take all the series’ considerable grit.

She's behind you: Nikita got to grips with former tutor Michael

Having watched a measly three episodes, its patent that “Nikita” can hold its own in the savvy-stakes; it’s chock-a-block with gasp-worthy conflict shots, calculated but subtle storylines and multifaceted characters from the top down. The only chink in its armour this early on is the lack of empathy I feel for Nikita; she’s almost too cool for human emotion and contact, and this marginally alienates viewers. Without reverting to a glitzy drama or coffee-shop soap, I’ve got my fingers crossed that Nikita doesn’t go on being such a lone she-wolf for too much longer. And my previous declination to tune into any new series featuring gutsy female heroines taking on sprawling foes? “That was then. This is now.”

One Line Wonder

Percy (speaking about Nikita): I’m not going to let a piece of street trash slow down this operation.

Famous last words, anyone?

The Fortune Telly-er

It’s sort of backwards for a fortune segment, but I see future episodes exploring Nikita’s back story more. There are gaping holes that, perhaps when filled, would give Nikita that touch of familiarity she needs to be accepted into viewers’ telly routine: did she really get recruited by Division in the same way as everyone else, or did someone see that she was a threat to be minimised? How did she wind up meeting a civilian fiancé in the first place? Why did Michael so willingly let her out of his clutches at the end of the pilot, and why was he so confident in “Kill Jill” that she wouldn’t carry out her threat to shoot him?

Royal Variety: The Small Screen and the Jubilee

I’m a whopping stickler for organization: “fail to prepare, prepare to fail” and so on and so forth. For that reason, since starting DitB I’ve factored a weekly trip to the magazine aisle into my routine; it’s just easier to know which shows I’ll be waffling on about next. For the most part, here’s how these TV mag excursions play out: I saunter into Sainsbury’s, scoop up “TV Times”, chuckle at the pubescent lads hovering around “PC Gaming” but looking longingly at “Nuts”, make my purchase and then glance over it with a coffee. It’s all very fly of me; once I did it wearing a blazer. Now here’s how this week’s outing played out: after parking up between two estates both decked out with Union Jack wing mirror stickers and window flags, I was forced to wade through an inordinate amount of middle-agers browsing the barbecue ranges, flocking to the end-of-aisle Pimms and combing their way through the bunting selection. I had to practically barrel roll over the heads of excitable and tiara-clad schoolchildren, all to the soundtrack of “God Save the Queen”. When I reached the magazine aisle it was like Sandringham at Christmas, and my fought-for telly magazines had enough pictures of the Queen’s face to make a book of first-class stamps look sharply republican.

Ah, but of course: this being the concluding week of Liz’s 60 years on the hot seat, how daft I had been not to have foreseen this Jubilee orgy. Indeed, when monarchical ceremonies and anniversaries are concerned, we Brits clobber our international neighbours with displays of conviviality and celebration. My gym this week announced its newest promotion: £60 for 60 sessions, all in honour of Elizabeth II. Royal fever has us well and truly gripped for the second year running, which meant a head-scratcher for me; with more Queen-related shows on the box than corgis at the Palace, where do I start? Now, I have no clue whether Her Majesty is a fan of BOGOFs (times are tough, after all), but her subjects have embraced them and I saw no reason not to make the best of them here. Thus, for the first time I made up my mind to dissect two shows simultaneously; ITV’s “The Queen and I” and the BBC’s “The Queen on Tour”. Once one has gotten past the first sounding like a low-budget film and the latter conjuring up images of Her Majesty hitting Magaluf, there’s a rationale at work; neither show has qualified for the ghastly amounts of promotion and breakfast show-hype lathered on this weekend’s big-dog shows (if my telly shows “Gary Barlow: On her Majesty’s Service” advert one more time I’ll lob my Jubilee mug at it), and both are historical documentaries of sorts.

“The Queen and I” especially appealed for its makeup. It’s true of Brits that whenever we are made to feel involved in some cause or ceremony, we throw our weight behind it. I didn’t give two hoots about “The Voice UK’s” Adam Isaac until I discovered he lived close by, after which point I would have heartily embraced him as my champion act (had he survived the quarter final cull). Monday night’s “The Queen and I” explored home-video footage of our monarch across her six-decade reign, interviewing its unlikely stars and average-Joe camera people about their brushes with royalty. Friday’s “The Queen on Tour” went for a seemingly incidental specificity, with former royal correspondent Jennie Bond charting the Queen’s most publicised trips to the West Country. It wasn’t as hapless as it sounds. Not quite, anyway.

Hope she didn't muck up the seating plan: The Cannings' royal visit

It would have been unreasonable for either half hour show to cram in all the Queen’s antics since the coronation, but whereas “The Queen and I” went for a charming and eclectic selection of home-video memories, “The Queen on Tour” delivered a hodgepodge of content. The former opened with the interviewing of John and Francis Canning, who had their March wedding gate crashed by Liz when she happened to be in Manchester for the second day of her Jubilee tour. The couples’ incredulity, and the whole episode being documented via mobile phone camera, lent that all-important “familiarity” factor to the show; the Cannings’ astonishment was lucid and justified. When John recalled, “Francis had a panic attack ‘cos she didn’t know how to curtsey properly” it struck as genuine and relatable. The next batch of footage came from Shirley Shearsmith who, in 1958, captured the Queen on cine cam by balancing herself on a garden wall when the monarch visited Crawley. The Cannings’ and Shearsmith’s stories were mismatched, but their mutual normality and subsequent perplexity at meeting a royal justified the close pairing. This was assorted content done well. “The Queen on Tour”, however, encompassed tidbits of Elizabeth’s reign that struck as too disparate. After opening with shots of the Queen’s 1949 visit to Exeter to commemorate the city’s rebuild following the Blitz, program makers felt the need to include every subsequent visit to the West whether particularly memorable or not. And just in case this didn’t create sufficient incongruity on its own, “The Queen on Tour” coupled it with vague references to what was going on for the Windsors and their subjects at large; Thatcher’s 1979 clinching of power got a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it mention, as did the death of Lady Di and Princess Anne’s divorce. It’s not that these references aren’t engrossing, in fact quite the opposite. Glossing over the death of Princess Diana with shots of the Queen visiting a Devon pub was never going to end well.

Didn't they read my "Casualty" blog? Some went to extreme lengths to capture the Queen on film

Although the BBC’s “The Queen on Tour” made a mighty hash of giving viewers a diverse and affecting account of the Queen’s West Country trips, it did trump ITV as far as its historical element was concerned. The show hastily remembered that, in 1939, it was whilst accompanying her parents on a tour of the South West that Elizabeth first clamped her eyes on her Phillip. The show likewise made room for footage of a 25-year-old future-monarch returning from a trip from Kenya in 1952, having learnt she would soon become Queen. “The Queen and I”, though beguiling with its intimate accounts of coming face to face with Elizabeth, sacrificed the covering of momentous and engaging events from her life. About halfway through, for instance, “The Queen on Tour” was delving into Her Majesty’s shedding a rare tear at seeing The Royal Yacht Britannia decommissioned, but “The Queen and I” was wrapped up in explaining one schoolboy’s delight at planting a tree in Her Majesty’s honour. Charm and eclecticism, eventually, wore thin.

Radiant: The Queen during her recent Exeter jaunt

It might seem a given, but what neither show skimped on was finding out about the Queen. To clarify, they both documented visits and glaring life events but also took time to comment on her demeanour and impact. “The Queen on Tour” did it with a smidge less craft, opening with the Queen’s stoical adherence to the motto “I have to be seen to be believed”, including one woman’s wonder at how “radiant” our monarch was in 1956 and rounding things off with Kelly Thacker of the University of Exeter (where the Queen recently opened a building) certifying, “she was shorter than I expected.” “The Queen and I” brought in those with a touch more discernment than Thacker. Royal historian Kate Williams (what a flawless name in such a profession) contended that Elizabeth II was the first Queen to bring in the idea of film-star royals and “getting out there”, and Dick Arbiter (Her Majesty’s former press secretary) commented on her extraordinary ability to put people at their ease. In effect, the show shrewdly called in the experts to complement the amateur video footage, instead of following “The Queen on Tour’s” example of ill-fatedly handing the amateurs the commentator role.

For me, “The Queen and I” reigned supreme. What I nonetheless rejoiced about watching one program immediately after the other, though, was the lack of similarity. I’m all for revelling patriotically in the Jubilee extravaganza and holding the utmost respect for 60 years on the throne, but I draw the line at sitting through the same show twice. Here’s to hoping this weekend’s royally saturated small screen maintains such individuality across its offerings.

One Line Wonder

Groupie: Jennie Bond documented the Queen's South-West tours

“The Queen on Tour” presenter Jennie Bond (discussing the scandalous and dramatic 1990s, and demonstrating a knack for giving her viewers what they really care about…): It was the start of a decade of turmoil for the Queen and her family. It was also the start of my time as the BBC’s royal correspondent.

Thanks for that, Jen.