As a new Mail on Sunday columnist, I thought, to give myself the greatest shot at success, I ought to try to be more like Piers Morgan but quickly realised even if I had a favourite cafe on the Upper East Side, or knew where that was, the chances of Tom Hanks wandering by, pulling up a chair, and saying: ‘Hey, Debs, I’m such a HUGE fan of yours!’ are so pathetically slim I’d best forget it.
So, you’re just going to have to settle for me, I’m afraid, and although I’m not much of anybody, and Angelina Jolie has never winked at me from the opposite side of the room while mouthing ‘Cheeky!’, I do happen to watch a lot of television.
Obviously, my programmes of choice are those high-minded ones on ancient civilisations presented by fusty old men in bow ties (BBC4) but, should there be a dearth, I will watch MasterChef, Embarrassing Bodies, The X Factor, The Great British Bake Off, New You’ve Been Framed! (or People Suffer The Funniest Minor Injuries, as it’s known in our house) and shows no one else watches, like Bondi Vet (Pick TV, intermittently).
This follows a super-hot Australian vet as he mends broken animals. It’s a bit like spending time with Embarrassing Bodies’ Dr Christian, but with puppies instead of Jean and her bottom rash.
Jean and her bottom rash!
The VillageSunday, BBC12/5
Perspectives: Portillo On PicassoSunday, ITV3/5
The InternThursday, Channel 41/5
New You’ve Been Framed!Saturday, ITV5/5
Readers, as we embark on this journey, I promise you one thing: should I ever be in possession of a bottom rash, I will keep it to myself.
You can throw all the private medicine there is at it, and Dr Christian, but as I shall tell the film crew, should they rock up: ‘Nothing to see here, lads. Move along.’
Now for the past week’s television, which included the ongoing series The Village, a six-parter following the life of a British village since 1914.
It’s grim, people are saying, but grim is one thing, it’s the joylessness of this that’s so wearing.
If Tess of the D’Urbervilles, say, were to turn up, she’d take one look, then scuttle back to the 1880s, while counting her blessings, and with a spring in her step.
The first episode, you may remember, ended with John (John Simm) performing The Dance Of The Mad Scything Fury (it can happen, when your crop goes to mildew; terrible nuisance should you suffer a bout in Asda) and his eldest son marching off to war.
The second featured births, deaths, violence, pregnancies, mud, a rape frame-up, a suicide attempt and Maxine Peake endlessly patting her wild hair, yet still felt dramatically inert, as if very little had happened at all.
This may be because the characters fail to ring true, so can’t take us with them emotionally.
They are clich̩s, to a man Рself-loathing drunk; nice teacher; cruel teacher; silly rich people at the big house Рwhich makes it hard to engage or particularly care.
Even the old fellow narrating seems like an old fellow pretending to be an even older fellow, which he is, but if I’d felt involved, would it have mattered? Would I even have clocked it?
The BBC has invested massively in this, but they need to give us something to invest in.
So, Portillo On Picasso, one of those programmes whereby it is thought that if you stick a celebrity in the driving seat of a documentary it will all be OK – I blame Michael Palin – but, in this instance, it was rather OK.
Hilary Devey is a natural TV star, even if she doesn't make the most of herselfMichael Portillo is an excellent presenter. He is intelligently curious, properly cares, and wears lovely coats. Cashmere, I would guess, or maybe cashmere-blend, but top quality either way.
He feels connected to Picasso as his father was a refugee from the Spanish Civil War, and experienced the bombardment of Guernica, the subject of Picasso’s most famous work.
Portillo was touching about his father, who ended up in Stanmore, Middlesex, but when crossing a road would still ‘bullfight cars with an imaginary cape’.
Portillo travelled around Spain, asking questions, and although, to a certain extent, this was a Wikipedia entry, with plane tickets and coats, it was all so breezily amiable you could forgive it for not shedding any new light on the subject.
We all know Picasso was the founder of modern art, right? (Lesser known fact: he founded it on a Tuesday morning, felt tired all afternoon, but was fine by the evening).
Lastly, The Intern, a new reality-cum-talent show fronted by Hilary Devey, a natural TV star, even if she doesn’t make the most of herself – a bit of blusher never hurt anybody, love! – but this format is just hateful.
Three young people who can’t get jobs even though they’ve sent off hundreds of letters are humiliated on national television via hidden-camera ploys, and then two of them don’t get a job.
Now this pair have ‘humiliation on national TV’ to add to their CVs. Nice.
So, not a great week for television but, my darlings, don’t lose heart as we still have and will always have New You’ve Been Framed!
And now it’s time for you to promise me one thing, and that thing is: you will never go on a trampoline. Or even near one.
